


In Orbit

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10058669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Abbie and Crane are college professors whose paths keep crossing.





	1. Chapter 1

Lieutenant Abbie Mills ponders the cane in the back of her Jeep, decides to leave it, and slings her satchel over her shoulder before closing the back door. She sighs and heads towards Green Hall, thankfully a short walk from the parking lot.

It's very early, so there aren't a lot of students around. A few jog through the quad, getting in an early morning run, but mostly the area is empty. Ahead, she sees a tall, thin man with half of his hair pulled back in a ponytail. He's striding quickly and purposefully on his long legs, his leather boots hitting the pavement nearly in time with every two of her steps.

 _Is he new?_ She shrugs as he turns to enter Franklin Hall. _Who knows? Just because I've never noticed him doesn't mean he's hasn’t been aroun_ _d_ _._ The building only marginally narrows the options of what he teaches. Franklin houses the History, Philosophy, and Religious Studies departments. _I bet Philosophy. Ponytail says “Philosophy” to me_ , she muses, absently wondering why she even cares.

She reaches her building (housing Sociology, Criminal Science, and Safety) and heads to her office to prepare for her first class of the fall term.

Abbie makes her way up the stairs and hears footsteps behind her. “Hey, Mills,” a voice calls.

She turns. “Hey, Irving,” she answers, smiling as the head of the Criminal Science department, Frank Irving, quickly catches her up, taking the stairs two at a time.

“We should get you an office on the first floor,” he says.

“Yeah, 'cause I want to hang around with the Sociology department,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Second floor isn't bad really.”

“Can I help you with your bag?” he asks.

“Nope, I'm good,” she says. “Besides, what are you going to carry it with, your teeth?”

He looks down at the full load in his arms. “Good point. And, sorry. You know I can't help but look out for you,” he apologizes.

“I know. You made a promise,” she says. “Anyone else would have gotten put in a choke-hold by now,” she adds, grinning.

“Anyone else would deserve it,” he retorts, struggling with his keys.

“Here,” Abbie takes them from his hand and unlocks his office door, laughing as she pushes it open for him. “And, _he_ offers to help _me_ ,” she mutters, going across the hall to her door.

“I heard that, Mills,” he calls. She just laughs harder.

 

xXx

 

Dr. Ichabod Crane rubs his temples, then sips his tea while sitting in the corner of one of the campus cafeterias. He learned very quickly to bring his own in a thermos rather than trying to obtain quality tea from the university food service. He looks over the notes for his afternoon classes, occasionally remembering to eat his lunch, which is pushed to the side of the table.

Students wander past, but none speak to him, though he recognizes a face here and there. It doesn't trouble him. In fact, he's enjoying his solitude, having spent the first two days of term deftly avoiding the attentions of Professor Katrina Van Tassel. And today, Professor Abraham Van Brunt seems hell bent on getting on Crane's nerves, so he chose to hide in plain sight in one of the places he knows neither the Religious Studies nor Philosophy professor frequent.

Crane is aware of Professor Van Tassel's interest in him. Unfortunately, he does not return her interest, viewing her as nothing more than a colleague. Van Brunt is someone he considers a friend, having been the first person here in Sleepy Hollow to reach out and befriend the unusual Englishman, but Crane has since learned that Bram has the propensity to be a gigantic arse.

He looks up from his notes, eyes scanning the cafeteria until they land on a petite young lady walking with a tray, looking for a table. He can see a burger, fries, and a bottle of water on the tray. She's lovely, with dark skin and long, dark brown hair, but it is her eyes that grab his attention. Large, the darkest, warmest brown he's ever seen, and framed by impossibly long black lashes.

He thinks about offering to share his table, but her youthful appearance stops him. _She is undoubtedly a student, Ichabod._ She gives him the briefest glance as she passes, and he returns his gaze to his papers. _Do not look back at her... damn i_ _t_ _, man, get a grip on yourself. You don't want to wind up with a mess like Bram had last year._

Crane tells himself he turned and looked to see if she found a place to sit, _not_ to check out her perfectly rounded and very firm-looking derriere.

He takes a deep breath, sets his jaw, remembers to take a bite of his turkey sandwich, and returns to his task.

 

xXx

 

Abbie sees him nearly every morning. She often sees him at lunch, once even looking directly at him as she passed by searching for a table. She tells herself all the while there were plenty of other paths through the dining hall she _could_ have taken, but went that way because it looked like there were more empty tables in that area.

_Right. You know you're curious about this man. What you don't know is why._

She sees him when she's leaving for the day, usually walking behind him. She knows he rides a bicycle and there's a from-a-bottle redhead ( _professor of what_? Abbie wonders) who occasionally tries to get his attention, but she seems way more into him than he is her. She also sees him occasionally talking with that douchebag Van Brunt, but thus far that's the only checkmark in the “con” category.

_Not that I'm keeping tabs or anything. I'm merely ensuring that my skills stay sharp._

_Yes. That's it. In no way am I checking out his ass or watching the way his hair blows in the breeze or straining to hear his voice just because I heard him speak once and his British accent and deep, velvety voice nearly made me drop my bag._

“Crane! Hey, Crane!” a voice calls one afternoon as Abbie walks to her truck. It had been a long day, and her last class was filled with freshman students who haven't quite gotten the hang of being in college yet.

The tall, thin man turns towards the voice.

_Crane. His name is Crane._

“Yes?” he asks. She can see he is less than thrilled to see Van Brunt and while he doesn't hide this, his friend either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

“Washington is having poker night. Are you coming?” Van Brunt's voice is very loud and easy to hear. Abbie doesn't even have to try to listen.

“No, thank you. You remember what happened last time,” he reminds him.

_What? What happened last time_ _?_

“They won't still be mad, man,” Van Brunt dismissively says. “You can't help your crazy memory and Sherlock Holmes-like mind. Not your fault if they're not able to school their features so you can't read them.”

“Says the man from whom I won the most,” Crane answers, raising an eyebrow.

Abbie can only _just_ see the eyebrow lift, but _just_ is enough. _Sexy. That's all that is._ The two men stop near the bike rack, so Abbie continues on to her car, knowing it would be too obvious if she hovered nearby.

The idea to stop and pretend to tie her shoe occurs to her _after_ she is seated in her Jeep.

When she gets home, she looks up Professor Crane in the faculty directory.

_Dr. Ichabod Crane. History. Came to SHU three years ago. Office is in Franklin, room 17._

_History, not Philosophy._

_He's been here as long as_ _I_ _._

_Also, don't play poker with him._

 

xXx

 

 _One student. Which_ _is_ _one more than usual._ Crane sips a latte and idly picks at a muffin in a coffee shop near campus. Friday afternoons are quiet, and he holds “office hours” at this coffee shop each week from one to three just because it's nice to be out of the office on a Friday afternoon.

Generally, he gets no visitors, but today there was one young man who showed up. After about two minutes, Crane realized the boy was merely trying to get into his good graces, and so it quickly became a short visit.

People walk past; people drift in and out. He sees students, faculty, and local residents pass the coffeehouse, some coming in for a beverage or snack.

He sees a wide variety of people, all the while guiltily wishing a _particular_ person would appear.

He sees her nearly everywhere else, so why not here? He frequently sees her in the morning before classes start. She's on campus early, and he wonders if she is a Teacher's Assistant for someone. She is often in the cafeteria when he eats lunch. He knows when she is walking behind him in the quad after his last class because he has grown attuned to the sound of her footsteps.

He's been beating himself up about his attraction to her since the day he first noticed her, and has even considered granting Professor Van Tassel's wish and asking her out as a distraction. However, that makes him feel like more of a cad because he knows he would only be using Katrina.

Crane's heart nearly stops when the door opens and she enters.

She is as beautiful as always. Dressed casually, she needs no heavy makeup or adornments to highlight her beauty. There is an effortless grace about her, an ease of bearing that tells him she is either unaware of how beautiful she is or simply doesn't care if others find her attractive.

He sighs and returns his eyes to his iPad.

A commotion near the registers causes him to lift his head again.

“Hey! Lieutenant Mills! Sorry, hey. Um, hi. Can I ask you a question about your lecture yesterday?” a young, fit man in an SHU t-shirt bounds up to the young woman, clearly eager for her attention.

“Mr. Brooks. With what can I help you?” she asks, her voice clear and melodious, carrying well enough to reach Crane’s ears.

“Well, you were talking about being observant and methods for recalling details, and...”

Crane doesn't hear the rest of the student's question, as his mind is reeling with new knowledge. _She's not a student. She's a professor. Mills. Lieutenant? Curious._

 _This changes everything._ He exhales, relieved that his attraction isn't unethical. He could march up to her right now and ask her out and it would not be a conflict of interest or get him in trouble with the university.

He's not going to, of course. _But, I could._

“You coming to the game tomorrow?” the young man asks. His voice is louder now, snapping Crane out of his reverie. The student is still standing near the register while Lieutenant Mills has moved towards the seating area with her drink. She adjusts the large leather bag hanging from her shoulder.

“I don't know, maybe,” she answers.

“Oh, man, you _gotta_ come! It’s going to be a great game!” he presses. His friends gathered with him nod and make comments of encouragement.

“I might make it,” she says. _Jen_ _ny migh_ _t_ _en_ _joy watching some live football,_ she thinks, remembering she promised her sister they'd do something this weekend. “You’re a cheerleader, right?” she asks, grinning.

Brooks feigns injury, slumping backwards with his hand over his heart while his buddies laugh. “Nah, he’s in the marching band!” one of them remarks.

“Hey, now!” she shoots back, pointing at a young man twice her size. “Don’t say nasty things about the marching band! _I_ was in the marching band!”

This is met by a chorus of “Oooo”s from the rest of the men. Brooks grins smugly, then turns his attention back to his favorite professor. _Maybe a little_ too _favorite,_ Abbie notes.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he says, turning to shove a very large young man on the shoulder, pushing him towards the exit.

Crane watches as Abbie rolls her eyes, sighs, and carries her coffee to her seat. He finds himself glancing in her direction frequently, hoping no more of his students arrive with questions.

She catches him looking once, and he quickly ducks his head, pretending to read. When he peeks up a moment later, she is no longer looking at him, but there is a slight smile on her face as she lifts her drink to her beautiful lips.

When he returns home, he immediately consults his faculty directory.

_Lieutenant G. Abigail Mills. Criminal Science. Office is in Green, room 22._

_Interesting. We both began our tenure here the same year._

_I wonder if she is former military or former law enforcement._


	2. Chapter 2

“Since when have you been interested in American football?” Abraham asks Crane as they climb the bleachers, looking for a seat.

“I simply thought I should see what all the fuss is about. I’ve been here several years now, so I believe I am overdue,” Crane answers, his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for Lieutenant Mills.

“You're full of shit,” Abraham answers. “Who are you looking for?”

“What? I am merely scanning the crowd, searching for seats that will afford us the most optimal viewing,” he answers. _Perhaps she hasn't arrived yet._

“Still full of shit.”

Crane ignores him, following him up two more rows and sitting. He sits on the aisle, in the hope of affording his long legs a little more room. Then, he sees her. She is wearing a leather jacket and carrying a fleece blanket in the school colors – orange and black. There is another young woman with her, and they pick their way through the crowd.

“Which one?” Abraham interrupts his observations.

“Which one what?” Crane replies, raising a haughty eyebrow.

“Those two.” He points rather obviously, and Crane grabs his arm and pushes it down. “The taller one or the shorty?”

Crane stares straight ahead, stalwartly _not_ looking in the direction of Lieutenant Mills. “Please refrain from using such colloquialisms. It’s embarrassing for us both,” he snaps.

Abraham shrugs. “Whatever. They're both hot. I bet it's the taller one. The two of you could have eyebrow competitions.”

“Will you shut up?” Crane asks, slowly turning his head to glare at his friend. _I’m beginning to regret inviting him._

“Sure, just tell me which one. You were staring pretty blatantly, man. Just saying,” Abraham casually says, unfazed by Crane's reprimand.

“The short one,” he mutters.

“Really? Hmm. She a student? She looks really young.”

“She is a _professor_ in the Criminal Science department,” Crane answers, his tone clipped. _Unlike you, I have morals._

“Ooo, sexy,” Abraham drawls. He looks back down at the two ladies. “Oh, nice ass, too. I can see why you’ve deigned to climb down from your ivory tower.”

Crane sighs. Heavily. The football team is warming up on the field, and the sounds of the marching band rehearsing drift into the stadium on the breeze. He watches as Lieutenant Mills bends and sets her folded blanket down on the bench to use as a cushion. Before she sits, it appears as though she sees him. Her eyes are looking in his direction anyway, and a brief flash of recognition crosses her face. Then, she turns around and sits again.

“She saw you,” Abraham says.

“Bram, we are 12 rows behind her. You have no way of knowing that,” Crane protests, but hopes Abraham is right.

“Right. I know what I saw. So. Do you want me to explain what's happening in the game, or are you just going to stare at her the entire time?”

“I read up on the rules of American football last night,” Crane says. “I have quite a firm grasp on the concept.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

 

xXx

 

“So, does this mean I can have Katrina?” Abraham asks as they stand in line waiting for hot dogs. Ichabod winces. “What?”

“Bram, I have never had any romantic inclinations towards Professor Van Tassel, but that does not mean you may ‘have’ her. She is a human being, not an... uneaten half-sandwich.” Behind him, Abbie emerges from the ladies’ room to wait for her sister, unnoticed by Crane. “A woman is not a prize one can just ‘have’. Her affections are a gift; a treasure to be earned and cherished,” he says, unaware that the woman whose affections he wishes to earn is right behind him, hearing his every word. Trying not to stare. Trying to act casual despite her warring impulses. A part of her wishes to bolt like a ridiculous schoolgirl with a crush while another part contemplates turning around and introducing herself. Or jumping on him.

Bram sees her and smirks lightly. “Oh, yes, big words from a man who had to run away to America to get over his ex,” he says, a little louder. He sees Abbie’s head turn slightly towards them in surprise.

“That is not an accurate statement and you know it,” Ichabod retorts. “I did not flee. I was offered a job. _Here._ And, as you are well aware, it was _I_ who ended things with Mary when I discovered she was only after my family’s wealth. Not to mention completely barmy.” He doesn’t hear Abbie’s choked snort as she tries to stifle her laughter.

However, Bram sees it and scowls a bit. “You are absolutely no fun, do you know that?” he asks.

Crane raises an eyebrow at him. “It is not my purpose in life to serve as your jester—”

“Hey, Abbie, should we get some hot dogs? I know _I’m_ hungry,” a voice close behind Crane says, and his words stop as he hears the name “Abbie.”

_Oh, God, is she right behind me? I should turn and say hello. Or smile at least. I should…_

“He who hesitates is lost, big guy,” Abraham goads, pointing with his eyes towards the two women.

Crane slowly turns to see the pretty lieutenant heading to the back of the line with her companion. He finds himself staring, but cannot stop. _They seem comfortable. Is she Miss Mills’ close friend? Lover?_ The two women stop talking and stare up at the menu as they wait in line. They both stand the same way, though Abbie is noticeably shorter. They both chew their lower lips and furrow their brows. Then, it hits him. _Sisters. I’d wager they are sisters. There is a definite resemblance._ Abbie’s eyes move and catch his. She holds his gaze for a moment, then smiles the smallest, sweetest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It makes him feels slightly warmer.

“Crane! You’re up, dude,” Abraham lightly shoves his shoulder. “Damn, you’ve got it bad,” he mutters.

“Yes, um, two hot dogs and a Coke, please,” Crane orders, unaware that Abbie Mills, three people back, is still watching him, straining to hear his voice.

 

xXx

 

“So, what’s the deal with the tall beardy guy?” Jenny asks once they are back in their seats.

“What do you mean?” Abbie carefully replies, taking a bite of her hot dog. She thoughtfully chews and swallows before adding, “What tall beardy guy?”

Jenny rolls her eyes. “The one who was totally eye-fucking you in the line at the concession stand. You know. Tall, dark, and British. Blue eyes, long hair. Black wool coat. Skinny as shit.”

Abbie takes a sip of her soda, carefully keeping her face neutral. “Oh. That’s Dr. Crane. He teaches History in Franklin, the building next to mine.” _He was totally doing_ what _to me with his eyes?_

Jenny snorts, not buying her sister's act for a second. “You guys having an affair or something? Maybe had a steamy one-night stand? He’s not really your usual type, but I could totally see you climbing Mount British. I mean, the novelty of it alo—”

“I don’t even know him apart from what I just told you,” she answers, cutting off her sister’s words. Her hot dog is suddenly very interesting.

“All I’m saying is _I’d_ tap that. He is hella sexy,” Jenny comments, breaking off a chunk of soft pretzel and popping it into her mouth. “His friend looks like a dick though.”

Abbie almost chokes on her soda from her sudden laugh. She coughs a few times, then recovers before speaking. “From what I understand, you’re right. Professor Abraham Van Brunt. Teaches philosophy, and is a total douche. Was caught having an affair with one of his students a couple years ago.”

“So what? She was over 18, right? Or he?”

“She, and, while not technically illegal, it's still unethical. And, kind of slimy,” Abbie argues. Honestly, she wonders how Crane and Van Brunt are friends. She’s heard nothing but good things about Crane, and everything she’s observed about him – and overheard him saying just now – points to him being a really good guy. Van Brunt seems kind of creepy.

“Well, the Good Doctor appears to be _way_ into you, Abs,” Jenny says, more serious now.

“We’ve never met,” Abbie says. Jenny looks surprised. “We keep seeing one another this term, like our teaching schedules are the same or something. I’ve never seen him at a football game before though…” she trails off, thinking of yesterday. _He was at the café. Maybe he heard Brooks trying to convince me to come to the game, and… No. That’s just silly._

“It’s fate,” Jenny says, turning all faux-mystical, waving her fingers. “ _Destiny_. It has been written long ago that the two of you should meet and immediately start getting it on— ow! Hey!”

Abbie smacks Jenny’s shoulder. “Shut up,” she says, but she’s laughing. “It’s not _fate,_ it’s coincidence,” she says.

“Right,” Jenny agrees, clearly placating her sister. She crumples up the waxed paper from her pretzel and tucks it into the paper boat in which Abbie's hot dog had been.

“Look, remember when we went to Disney?” Abbie asks. Jenny nods. “Thousands of people there. There’s no way we could have seen every person in the park who was there at the same time as us,” Abbie continues.

“Your point?”

“Even with all those people, remember how we kept seeing that _same_ family? Like, everywhere we went, they were there, too?”

Jenny laughs. “Oh, yeah. With the pale, freckled, red-haired kids who all wound up sunburnt,” she remembers. “So, what you’re saying is that this Crane fellow is like those Weasleys we kept seeing at Disney?”

“Kind of. All I know is we keep crossing paths with each other. That's all. Now, shut up and watch the game,” she says, turning her attention back to the field.

Jenny chuckles, but doesn't further press the issue.

Possession of the ball has just switched back to the other team, so the offense returns to the sidelines as the defense heads out. Andy Brooks pulls off his helmet, gets a drink, and looks up into the crowd. A moment later, he spots Abbie and waves, smiling brightly. She returns his wave, though with far less enthusiasm.

“Damn, girl, you've got _all_ the boys coming to your yard,” Jenny comments.

Abbie sighs. “He’s one of my students. Majoring in Criminal Science, so I can’t shake him off. I’m his damn advisor, too.” _We should have sat further up in the stands. Like back where Dr. Crane is seated._

Brooks turns away, talking to a coach for a few moments. Then, he looks up at Abbie again. She intentionally avoids his gaze.

“He _so_ has a crush on you,” Jenny leans over and says.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Abbie says, rolling her eyes.

“Well, you’re welcome, Sergeant Sarcasm,” Jenny shoots back. She angles her head when he turns around, his back to them. “Looks like he's a _tight end_ to me...”

“Okay, ew,” Abbie replies, making a face. “And, I think he's actually a wide receiver.”

Jenny just laughs. “I don't really care. He's got a nice ass. That's the only reason I watch football, you know: the tight pants.”

“Jenny, he's like, twelve years old,” Abbie says. “Also, just... no.”

“Right. You prefer your men closer to your own age. That's reasonable,” Jenny says, nodding.

“Obviously.”

“And, taller.” She pauses, trying unsuccessfully not to grin. “And, British.”

“Jenny...” Abbie sighs, but her laughter betrays her.

“And, bearded.”

 

xXx

 

“Looks like you have some competition,” Abraham says, indicating Brooks waving at Abbie.

“For a man who claims to be a fan of this sport, you certainly are spending a lot of time not watching it,” Crane says. He, too, saw the young football player notice his lieutenant in the stands. _Curious. That is the same young man from the coffee shop. I am not certain his attentions are appropriate._ He feels a strange mixture of jealousy and concern for Abbie, but pushes it down, certain it is unwarranted. _She would never welcome such attentions from a student. I don't know how I know this, but I feel quite sure of it._

“For a man who claims he's not here because of this woman, you certainly are spending a lot of time acting like Lady Macbeth,” Abraham retorts, breaking into his friend's thoughts.

“Ah, a rare display of cleverness,” Crane says, actually smiling. He turns to the laughing Van Brunt. “Very well. I concede. Yes, I am interested in Lieutenant Mills. Will I act on that interest? I do not yet know.”

“What's not to know?”

“Well, for starters, she may already be involved with someone. Secondly, why would a beautiful woman like her be interested in the attentions of a man such as myself? And third, while we seem to be continually orbiting one another, we never actually cross paths.”

Abraham stares.

“What?” Crane asks.

“You haven't dated anyone since you've been here, have you?” he asks.

“Um, no,” Crane answers, “but I hardly see how this is relevant.”

“Use that big brain of yours, man. She doesn't have a wedding ring. Which should be the first thing you notice.”

 _I was too entranced by her eyes – and lips – to look at her hands._ “She still may have a boyfriend. Or, girlfriend.”

“You never know unless you try,” Bram says, casually shrugging. “That's not her girlfriend with her.”

“I had deduced that they are sisters, yes,” Crane says.

“If she had a boyfriend, don't you think he would be at the game with her?” Abraham continues. “Or is that wide receiver slipping it to her during her office hours?” he asks, nodding towards the field.

“Don't be crass, Bram,” Crane says. “But, I will grant that you do have a point. Short of stalking her, I have no way of knowing unless I ask.”

“Exactly. So, why are you still scowling?”

“She couldn't be interested in me,” Crane softly admits. “I'm merely an odd, tall, lanky Englishman who enjoys books about the American Revolution. She's a stunningly beautiful, intelligent woman who probably has men pursuing her all the time. I'd just be another man in a line of suitors.”

A woman sitting in front of them turns around. She's older; likely the mother of one of the players. “Excuse me, I couldn't help overhearing, but I just have to say that you should definitely ask this woman out. Whoever she is.”

Crane blinks in surprise while Abraham chuckles knowingly beside him. “I should?” Crane asks, curious as to this woman's reasons.

“Well, yes. If she's as beautiful and intelligent as you say, she might _not_ have guys asking her out because they may feel intimidated. Also, you're selling yourself short, young man. You're very handsome. And, heck, if I was,” she pauses, looking him over, “twenty years younger, I'd go out with you just to listen to you talk.”

Crane smiles, his cheeks slightly coloring. “Thank you, madam. I must say it is helpful to hear a woman's perspective on the matter.”

“You're welcome. Um, may I ask who the young lady in question is?” she asks.

“She's about 12 rows down, in the brown leather jacket. Long, straight, very dark brown hair. In front of the student with the bright orange hair,” Crane says.

“Sure, you tell _her_ right away,” Abraham teases. Crane ignores his jab.

“Sitting beside another young lady with long, curly hair?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” The woman leans to the side. “I can't see her face, but I'll watch for it,” she answers, smiling. “Oh, I was going to add: if you're always seeing her, _make_ your paths cross.”

“I was just going to say that!” Abraham protests, throwing his hands in the air.

The woman laughs and turns around.

“I _was_ ,” he insists.

“I believe you,” Crane answers. The first half is over, and the players jog off the field as the marching band takes it.

“There's my Joshua,” the woman turns slightly towards them, pointing to the band. “The center snare drum.”

“Ah, you're here for the marching band then,” Crane nods, smiling.

“Well, I do like football, too, but yes, I'm a band mom.”

After the band performs, Abbie rises, turning towards them, possibly heading to the restroom.

“Oh, my, she _is_ lovely,” Band Mom says, turning back towards Crane. “Such a tiny thing. What does she teach?”

“Criminal Science,” Crane answers. “I overheard one of her students address her as 'Lieutenant', so I presume she is former military or law enforcement.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Really? Fascinating. Are you also a professor?”

“Yes, I teach History, and Bram teaches Philosophy,” Crane explains.

“What is your name? I'll have to ask Joshua if he was in your class,” she asks. “I think he took History already...”

“Dr. Ichabod Crane,” he answers.

“Professor Abraham Van Brunt,” Abraham adds, though he suspects the woman is not really interested in him.

“Crane and Van Brunt, got it. I'm pretty sure he hasn't taken any Philosophy courses,” she says. “He's a music major.”

“What is your name, dear lady?” Crane asks.

“Oh, my name is Lynn Gardener,” she says.

“Pleased to meet you,” he smiles. “Does your son share your surname?”

“Um, yes,” she answers.

“Joshua Gardener... yes, I believe he was in my afternoon Tuesday-Thursday class last spring,” Crane says, nodding. “Tall lad, blonde hair? Ah, suddenly his penchant for pencil-tapping makes sense...”

Mrs. Gardener's eyes widen. “You remember him?”

“I remember everything, madam,” Crane says.

“He's got a photographic memory,” Bram supplies.

“Eidetic memory,” Crane corrects. “ _Everything_ , not just images.”

“Goodness,” Mrs. Gardener exclaims. “Sorry about the pencils. It's a drummer thing. The world is their drum set.”

“Indeed,” Crane answers, nodding.

After the game ends, Crane and Abraham stick around to watch the marching band's “Fifth Quarter” performance, partly out of deference to their new friend and partly because Crane is fascinated by the marching band. He notices Abbie and her sister have also stayed.

As they exit, Crane notices the two women are stuck, waiting for an opening in the crowd so they can file out. He pauses, tugging Abraham's sleeve to make him stop as well. Summoning his courage, Crane smiles and nods at them.

Abbie returns his smile in a silent thank-you, and she and her sister step out in front of the two men.

Just as Abraham starts nudging Crane to try to talk to Abbie, the sisters turn abruptly, heading to Abbie's car.

“He who hesitates is lost,” Abraham repeats.


	3. Chapter 3

Four days later, Crane heads out of his building, lunch on his mind as he walks through the quad. It's unusually empty, and he finds his eyes automatically scanning for a particular, now-familiar shape. A distinctly Abbie Mills-shaped shape. He glances down at his watch and hears an “Oof!” followed by a fading “Sorry!” and he looks up to see Lieutenant Mills on the ground, her bag spilled at her right, a book resting on its pages at her left. His feet automatically take him there. Swiftly.

“Shit,” she grumbles, slowly sitting up. She scowls at a couple of female students who look her way but do not appear to be concerned, and begins to hastily shove the spilled contents of her bag back inside.

“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” a deep, distinctly British voice gently asks.

She looks up into the concerned face of Ichabod Crane. “Dr. Crane...” she says, blinking in surprise. _Shit shit shit. Of course._ This _is how we meet._ “Um, yes, I think so, thank you,” she answers. _He's even more handsome when he’s up close and speaking to me._

She reaches for her book, then jerks her hand back with a startled “Oh!” just before it makes contact with Crane’s large, long-fingered one. Said hand gently closes around the book, lifting it and making sure the pages are not bent before shutting it.

“May I?” he asks, offering his other hand, trying not to grin at the fact that she knows his name.

The Abbie Mills of four years ago would have hopped up easily with a cheery, “Nope, I got it, thanks.” The Abbie Mills of now needs his assistance because her knee, which she twisted when she fell, is hurting like hell. “Thank you,” she says, taking his hand. His fingers close around her small hand, completely encapsulating it as he tugs her carefully to her feet. She tries her bad leg, winces, but decides it will hold. _Need to get my damn cane. I hate that thing._

“Are you injured?” he asks, noting she is favoring one leg. He reluctantly releases her hand. “That was extremely rude behavior,” he adds, scowling darkly, looking off in the direction of the young man who, in his haste, knocked over this tiny woman.

“I'll be fine,” she says. It's a white lie, but the full truth takes too long. “And, he _did_ yell 'Sorry',” she says, twisting her mouth sideways. “Which, apparently, makes it all better.”

“Hmph,” Crane huffs. “Well, I do take comfort in the fact that the young man did not call out the wretched phrase 'my bad' by way of an apology.”

Abbie laughs, and his frown becomes a smile. _She has a wonderful laugh._ “Ah, yes, the decline of the English language,” she agrees. Then, she checks her watch. “Shoot. Um, thanks again. Nice to finally meet you,” she says. “I need to go, or...”

“You'll be late for your class, yes,” he says, nodding. Wednesday is the one day of the week where their lunches do not coincide. “Oh,” he suddenly remembers he's holding her book, and passes it to her.

She takes it carefully, consciously not touching his hand. “It was lovely to finally meet you, Lieutenant Mills,” he says, bowing slightly.

She smiles. “Abbie,” she corrects, though she finds she thoroughly enjoys the way he pronounces “Lieutenant”.

“Well, Abbie, please, call me Ichabod. And, I do hope your afternoon goes well.”

“Yours, too, Ichabod. Don't be a stranger now.”

He looks into her large, brown eyes, tempted to spend his afternoon gazing into them, losing himself in those dark chocolate pools. “I shan't.”

She smiles, her cheeks warm, and turns towards her building

As she walks away, he notices she is walking with a slight limp and frowns, concerned. _Did she tumble that hard? Is she more injured than she led me to believe?_ He watches her until she is safely inside the building. When she looks back and sees him still looking in her direction, she shyly smiles and waves.

Crane waves back, also smiling.

 

xXx

 

Later that afternoon, Abbie slowly makes her way to her car, mentally cursing the careless student who knocked her over earlier.

“Lieutenant Mills, you _are_ injured,” a smooth, familiar voice tinged with concern intones behind her.

She turns to see Dr. Crane just catching her up.

“I've got a bad knee,” she explains, stopping to look up at him. _Oversimplification, but it'll do for now._ “The fall aggravated it, I'm afraid.”

“Well, then, if I may offer further assistance today,” he says, presenting her his arm.

She hesitates a moment. “Why not?” she says, taking his arm. “It would be most unseemly of me to turn down such a gentlemanly offer.”

“I would wager there is nothing unseemly about you, Lieutenant,” he says, shortening his strides to match hers, not wanting to make her walk any faster than she should.

“Abbie,” she reminds him. “And, thank you. Again.”

“You are most welcome,” he says. _You should have offered to carry her bag._

“I'll have to think of some way to repay you,” she says. “You're becoming my personal knight in shining armor,” she adds, chuckling.

“I assure you, Abbie, no repayment is necessary,” he says. “It is my pleasure.” He pauses a moment, clearing his throat. “Honestly, I have been trying to find a way to make your acquaintance,” he admits.

They reach her Jeep, and Abbie stops walking. “Really?” she softly asks, looking up at him.

“Yes,” Crane nods. “I hope this doesn't sound... creepy, but I have noticed our schedules seem to be very similar this term.”

She smiles. _I love his accent._ “I noticed that, too,” she says. “So, I'm just as creepy as you.”

He laughs. “Is this your vehicle?” he asks, nodding at the SUV.

“Yeah. It's bigger than I need most of the time, but I like to be up high,” she says, grinning a little.

He notices the disabled plate on the truck, but says nothing about it. _She said she has a bad knee. I am sure it is related._

“Where's your car?” she asks.

“Over there,” he points, indicating the bicycle rack under a small shelter beside the parking lot.

“Oh, how very green of you,” she appraises.

“Actually, it is a matter of not having a drivers' license in this country,” he admits. “It has simply not been a priority, I'm afraid.”

Her lips curve in a mischievous half-smile. “If I were you, I'd stick with the 'I'm being green' excuse,” she says, teasing him.

He laughs again. “Duly noted.”

“So, um, thanks again for the escort, Ichabod,” she says, knowing she should go home but not really wanting to leave.

“You are most welcome, Abbie,” he answers. “Do take care with your knee.”

“I will. Going home to put some ice on it,” she says.

“Well, then, I will... bid you good evening,” he says, giving her the same small bow he did earlier that day.

“Good night. See you tomorrow,” she answers.

“Yes, and I hope your knee will mend quickly.” He nods and walks three steps away, then turns back. “Abbie?”

She looks back at him, standing in the open doorway of her Jeep. “Yes?”

“If our paths cross in the cafeteria tomorrow... perhaps you might consider finding an empty seat at my table?”

He looks so hopeful and expectant that Abbie cannot help but smile. “I might consider it,” she answers.

 

xXx

 

“Is this seat taken?” Abbie's voice summons Ichabod from his reading, and he looks up, smiling.

He immediately stands and pulls the chair out for her. She sets her tray down on the table, hooks her cane on the arm of the chair, and sits. “Thank you,” she says.

“You're welcome,” he says. “And, hello. I'm pleased you decided to join me.”

“I'm pleased you're still here,” she says. “You're always here before I am. Of course, that may have something to do with your ability to walk significantly faster than me, especially now.” She picks up her fork and spears some of her chef's salad.

“Is your knee not improving?” he asks, looking concerned. “I notice you've brought some assistance of your own today.” He gestures toward the cane, noticing it is not a basic, utilitarian cane but an attractive piece of polished, dark wood with a subtle pattern carved into it.

“Yeah, it might take a while to mend. Old injury,” she says. “The fall just wrenched it a bit.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” he sympathizes. He wants to ask how she originally injured it, but he isn't sure if it is a sensitive topic, so he files it under Things to Ask When I Know Her a Little Better.

“Happens occasionally. Last year, I slipped on some water on the floor in the ladies' room. I didn't fall, but still twisted it. It was a good week before I was no longer cane-dependent,” she causally explains.

“Well, I must say I wouldn't have known you had a bad knee prior to your little spill yesterday,” he says.

“Good to know,” she says, smiling.

They eat and chat, slowly getting to know one another. They discover a mutual fondness for home improvement shows. Abbie finds his unusual interest in American History charming, and Crane is fascinated and impressed by the revelation that she was very close to becoming an FBI agent.

“When is your next class?” she asks, checking the time on her phone.

“Two. Yours?” he asks.

“Also, two,” she says, chuckling. “We should compare schedules some day. See exactly how similar they are.”

He smiles. “I would say they are _quite_ similar. It puzzles me how I’ve never seen you before this term, though I know you have been a professor here as long as I.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “You looked me up,” she says.

“Oh, um, yes. I... heard the young football player address you last Friday at the coffee shop. It was the first occasion in which I'd caught your name. I am sorry if my investigation makes you uncomfortable.”

“I looked you up, too,” she says. “I heard Van Brunt yelling to you in the quad last week. That was the first occasion in which _I'd_ caught _your_ name.”

His smile falters a bit. “You know Abraham?”

“Only by reputation. I think _everyone_ knows who he is after last year,” she drily comments.

“Quite,” he answers, his clipped tone indicating he doesn't approve of his friend's actions. “Interestingly enough, I believed you to be a student at first.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes. You have a very youthful appearance.”

“Well, I don't exactly dress like a professor, I know that,” she says.

“Your attire is perfectly acceptable,” Crane replies. “In fact, I will admit I struggled a bit, trying _not_ to notice you.”

Abbie pauses a moment, stunned by the realization that he’s been as interested as she this whole time. “I never thought I'd say this, but I guess it's a good thing Andy is loud,” she says, snorting a small, nervous laugh, trying not to appear as flustered as she suddenly feels. She clears her throat and continues. “Andy Brooks, the football player you mentioned. If you hadn't heard him, you might still be thinking I'm a student and we wouldn't be having this nice little lunch date.”

“Yes, for that, I am thankful,” he agrees, smiling warmly at her. “Especially if you are agreeable to lunching with me again.”

“Of course, I am,” she answers immediately, returning his smile.

His fingers twitch on the tabletop, and he finds himself resisting the urge to reach across and take her hand in his.

“I do have one question for you, Abbie,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Your name. For what does the 'G' stand?”

She laughs. “Oh, that. It's Grace. Abigail is my middle name. Oh! You'll like this: Grace is a family name, reaching back to Colonial times. The first born daughter in each generation is always given Grace as a first name. I was the first girl – I have an older cousin who is male – so it went to me. The original Grace was my ancestor, Grace Dixon, who was a free woman of color during the Revolutionary War. She's as far back as we can trace our family tree.”

“How amazing,” Crane says, fascinated, wondering if there’s any research he could do to find out more about Miss Dixon. “It is a beautiful name, but I believe Abigail suits you very well.”

She smiles. “No one calls me 'Abigail'. It was reserved for when I was in trouble.”

“So, I'm sure you only rarely heard it,” he says, but he suspects otherwise. A slow smile spreads across his face.

“Yeah. Rarely,” she says, laughing.

 

xXx

 

That afternoon, Abbie leaves her building, opening her umbrella as she emerges. She pauses a moment, adjusting the satchel on her shoulder before proceeding to her car, umbrella in one hand, cane in the other.

As she approaches her Jeep, she sees Ichabod huddled under the small overhang under which the bicycle rack sits, turning the dials on a lock.

“Looks like you didn't check the forecast,” she calls.

“Abbie,” he says, smiling. “Alas, you are correct,” he sighs, looking up from his bike to her face.

“Um, I can give you a lift, if you like,” she softly offers, stepping closer.

“Oh, no, I couldn't inconvenience you like that,” he says, though he would love to take her up on her offer.

“No inconvenience. Consider it a 'thank you' for yesterday,” she says. He hesitates, and she adds, “Your bike will fit in my Jeep.”

“Oh? To be honest, I did not relish the thought of leaving it here overnight,” he says.

“I don't blame you,” she says. “Also a bonus, I always have rock star parking on account of my knee, so I’m parked close by,” she says, using her cane to point to her SUV.

“So I see,” he comments. “It will always trouble you?” he asks. He knows now isn’t really the best time, but she broached the subject.

“Yep. It's actually the reason I'm not a cop anymore,” she informs.

“Oh,” Crane says, not sure how to respond.

“It'll be fine. Just wrenched it a bit. It's fake anyway,” she says, grinning. His eyes widen in surprise, and she realizes she should clarify. “Just the parts inside, not the whole leg. Come on. I'll tell you about it in the car. Grab your bike.”

He unlocks his bike and wheels it to her car, Abbie trying to hold an umbrella over both of them as they walk. _I feel like Mary Poppins, holding it this high._ She opens the back and pulls the lever that flips the rear seats down to make room for his bike.

“Thank you,” Crane says, easily lifting his bike and placing it in the back, trying not to get chain grease or dirt anywhere. She reaches up and presses a button to close the hatch, and he follows her to the driver’s side of the car to open the door for her.

“Thank you,” she says, finding she’s gradually getting used to his gentlemanly manners.

“Thank _you,_ Abbie, for your assistance,” he answers.

“You're getting wet,” she comments.

“So I am,” he replies. He closes the door and quickly moves around to the passenger side and climbs in.

“What do you do for transportation in winter?” Abbie asks, backing her Jeep out of the parking spot.

“Professor Van Brunt gives me a lift. Or, I walk. That way, please.” He points her in the direction of his apartment.

“Hmm,” Abbie says, nodding. “What's Van Brunt like, anyway? I don't mean to be rude, but I haven't heard good things about him...” They spoke a little about him earlier, and Abbie is curious to know why Crane is friends with Van Brunt.

“Ah, yes, that is certainly understandable,” Crane says. “Left here.”

She flips on her turn signal and pulls into the lane at the lights. “I mean, you’re the… very picture of a gentleman, but he seems like kind of a...”

“Prat?” he supplies.

“Not the exact word I was thinking, but it'll do,” she says, chuckling.

“He is. However, he was the first person to befriend me upon my arrival here in Sleepy Hollow.”

“Ah. So, an element of loyalty is involved. I get that,” she says.

“Bram is a good friend most of the time. Publicly, he’s an asshole—”

“There’s the word,” Abbie interjects.

Crane barks a short laugh and continues. “But, once you get past his propensity to be a bit of a dick, he has some good qualities,” he comments. “He’s rather insecure, I think.”

“That certainly makes sense,” she says, though she can’t help but smile at hearing him swear. _He manages to make it sound so charming._ She pulls up to another light. “Hey, are you hungry?” she suddenly asks, glancing at the diner on the right, just across the intersection.

“Um, yes, actually,” he answers. _I was going to invite her in for coffee when we reached my home, but this will do nicely._

“Great. Let's get some food,” she says. The light changes, and she crosses the intersection and pulls into the parking lot. “I owe you a story anyway.”

“Indeed you do,” he agrees.

 

xXx

 

They peruse their menus, Abbie looking only very briefly while Crane pores over the pages, inspecting every choice.

“You've never been here before?” she asks, watching him with slight amusement.

“Once, a while ago. The menu has changed,” he says. “As have the prices.”

She angles her head at him. “How long ago is 'a while'?”

“Two years, ten months, and... eleven days. For lunch,” he answers, looking up from the menu.

She blankly stares back at him.

“I, um, possess an eidetic memory,” he explains. “I remember everything I read, hear, see, experience...” He waves his hand in a vague gesture of continuation.

“Damn,” she says.

“Indeed,” he agrees. “It does prove useful, but it is, at times, quite exhausting.”

“Would be a handy skill if you were a cop,” she says.

“I imagine it would. Did you injure your knee in the line of duty?” he asks, closing his menu.

The waitress appears with their drinks and takes their order. Abbie orders the Monte Cristo sandwich; Crane opts for a club sandwich.

“Yes,” she says, taking a sip of her Sprite. “It was a drug bust. Traffickers passing through on their way to Canada. We had the Feds helping us, of course. I'll spare you all the gory details, but...” she pauses, sighing, “the result is my left leg was shot to hell.”

“Shot... as in shot with bullets as opposed to the modern slang meaning 'worn out', I presume?” he asks.

“Yep. Four times. Three went clean through. One shattered my kneecap. Muscle and tendon damage. Just a big ol' mess.”

“Oh, dear,” he sympathizes. “That must have been terribly painful.”

“Not gonna lie, it hurt like a real bitch,” she says, taking a deep breath. _It's been so long since I've talked about this._ “It was easier to just replace the entire joint than to try to patch it back together.”

“That was probably wise,” he says. “I would imagine the recovery time was slightly less as well?”

“Slightly,” she allows, “but it will never be quite right again, even with rehab and physical therapy. And, it's not pretty. Got a big surgery scar plus a couple of bullet-hole ones.” She looks at her hands and continues, quieter. “My partner was killed though, so I guess I’m lucky.”

He leans forward over the table and allows his hand to reach out, placing it over hers, folded together in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Abbie. You must have been close with your partner.”

“He was my mentor. Like a father to me,” she simply says. “He was the reason I became a cop.”

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Crane says, squeezing her hands gently, noting how his one hand can encapsulate both of hers.

“Thank you. I haven't actually talked about it in a long time,” she says, smiling at him. He (reluctantly) withdraws his hand, and she sits up a little straighter, as if mentally flipping a switch. “But, this is depressing. We need to…” her head turns towards the motion of people entering the diner. “Here we go…” she sighs.

Crane looks and sees Brooks walking in with a few friends. “The football player,” he observes.

“Yeah. He’s becoming a bit of an issue,” she says.

“Someone has a schoolboy crush?” Crane asks.

“Something like that. I need to find hangouts farther away from campus. Or something. I’m his advisor, though, so it’s a little hard to shake him off.” Brooks is looking in their direction now, trying to catch Abbie’s eye.

“Don’t look over. He’s trying to catch your eye,” Crane quietly informs, maintaining the appearance of having a casual conversation, lifting his drink to his lips.

“Thank you,” she says and, to his amazement, doesn’t look over.

 _Most people, on being told “don't look”, would immediately look._ “Perhaps… if I may offer a bold suggestion…?” He extends his hand, palm up, across the table.

She looks at it a moment, then places her hand in it. “So, you’re thinking if _he_ thinks I’m… I mean, _we're_ , um…”

“Yes,” he provides, loving the feel of her small hand in his.

“Then, he’ll back off?” she finishes. Her heartbeat has sped up and she feels almost too warm. Especially when he lightly sweeps his thumb across her knuckles.

“Worth a try,” he says, smiling. Then, he swallows and adds, “If I may offer another bold suggestion…”

Her eyes widen slightly, wondering what he’s about to say. Wondering if he's going to suggest they kiss. Hoping? “Yes?” she asks in a small voice.

“Perhaps you would look favorably on having this little ruse,” he slightly lifts their joined hands, “ _not_ actually be a ruse?” He meets her eyes with his, his face open and a little anxious as he waits for her answer.

She looks into his kind, intelligent eyes. _Wow. One is blue and the other is a little bit green._ “Dr. Crane, are you asking me out?” she asks, recovering.

“Yes, Lieutenant Mills, I am,” he responds. “And, my heart has forgotten to beat as it awaits your answer.” His eyes lock onto hers; he lifts her small hand, and very lightly brushes his lips against her skin in a caress so soft it can barely be called a kiss.

 _Damn, who would have thought this guy had game?_ “Yes, I would love to go out with you,” she answers, smiling. He returns her smile and breathes again. Their food arrives, and he reluctantly releases her hand to allow the waitress to set their plates down.

Crane looks over and sees Brooks sitting in a booth with a friend, looking a tad sullen. “It appears your Ben Braddock has received the message, Mrs. Robinson,” he says, lips twitching in a half-smile, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Abbie laughs, and he loves the sound. “Interesting reference,” she says.

“It was the first thing that came to mind,” he admits. “I am well aware you are unmarried. And, younger.”

“Thank you,” she says, taking a bite of her sandwich. “Mmm.”

“I have always been curious about that particular sandwich,” he says. “May I...?”

“Sure, have a bite,” she says, passing it to him.

“Is this... icing sugar?”

“If by 'icing sugar' you mean powdered sugar, yes.”

“Curious,” he says, then takes a bite. A moment later he groans, a deep, throaty rumble which makes Abbie's libido sit up and take _serious_ notice.

 _Damn, man, dial it back or I will not be able to be held responsible for my actions in this public place._ “Good?” she asks, gathering her wits.

“Bloody hell,” he exclaims, nodding as he passes it back to her.

“The powdered sugar and the slightly sweet French toast balance the saltiness of the ham and the mild bitterness of the Swiss cheese,” she explains. “Because science.”

He chuckles.

“Also, I'm a big fan of the salty-sweet combo,” she admits. “There was one place I went to that didn't put the powdered sugar on, but provided a little cup of syrup in which to dip the sandwich.”

“That sounds rather decadent,” he says, eating a fry. “But, intriguing.”

“It was _so_ good,” she says, “and _so_ unhealthy.” She takes another bite of her sandwich, closing her eyes a moment.

 _She is sublimely beautiful_. Crane indulges himself, watching her enjoy her food. Then, she opens her eyes and he quickly returns his attention to his own dinner, hoping she doesn't spot the redness in his cheeks.

 

xXx

 

“Can I get the two of you anything else?” the waitress asks, collecting their plates. Abbie ate about three-quarters of her sandwich, but Crane obligingly finished the last bit (plus her remaining fries) after cleaning his own plate.

“Nothing for me,” Abbie says. “It was very good.”

The waitress nods and looks at Crane.

“No, thank you... Heather. Just the bill, please,” he says, smiling.

“Okay,” she answers, automatically smiling back as her cheeks slightly color.

Abbie watches the waitress with mild amusement. _I don't think he can help it. He's just_ that _charming._

The waitress returns with their bill, which Ichabod quickly grabs.

“How much do I owe?” Abbie asks.

He raises an eyebrow. “Interesting... they must be having a special on Monte Cristo sandwiches and Sprite... there is no charge for your meal,” he says, doing a poor job of keeping a straight face.

“Right. Seriously,” she presses, trying to ignore that eyebrow of his.

“I assure you I am quite—” he pauses, quickly moving the bill out of the reach of her hand as she attempts to snatch it from his grasp. He tuts at her, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “You doubt me, Lieutenant?”

“I do,” she says, trying very hard not to laugh.

“Please,” he says, his tone switching to soft and sincere. “I insist.”

Abbie tries one last approach, though she is quickly caving. “If you’re thinking this is payment for the ride home, it isn’t necessary, remember? _I_ was thanking _you_ for helping me yesterday,” she protests as they walk to the register.

“I am well aware,” he calmly answers as he stubbornly pays the bill. He turns and offers her his arm. She notices he is intentionally standing on her right side, since she uses her cane with her left hand. She takes his arm and he adds, “But, what kind of first date would this be if I allowed you to pay for your own meal?”

“Ichabod, I believe _I_ invited _you_ to dinner,” she says, laughing as they walk outside. The rain has stopped, but the ground is still wet.

“Oh, did you? I don’t seem to recall that particular detail,” he says, blatantly lying.

“Right. Didn’t you just tell me you have an eidetic memory?” she asks, but is still laughing and she’s not even sure why.

“Sorry. I do not seem to recall that particular detail either,” he says.

Abbie unlocks her car and he opens the door for her. “Oh, so it’s like that is it?” she asks, smiling, seated in the driver’s seat.

He leans forward, his head just inside the car. “Yes,” he mutters, reaching up to stroke her cheek with his long index finger, “it is.”

Abbie stares a moment, then a slow smile spreads across her face. _He’s so much different from_ _anyone I’ve ever met._ “Get in the car, Professor,” she says, intending to sound cool and flippant, but her voice betrays her, coming out breathy and soft. Crane's eyebrow twitches upward once. Half smiling, he gently closes the car door.

She watches him walk around the front of her Jeep. _Okay, yes, I'm definitely interested. And, that eyebrow? Hot. What was it Jenny said? He's “hella sexy”? Yeah._

His apartment building is just around the corner from the diner.

“Just here,” Crane says. “There's a lot. You can pull into space 312. It's mine. Not that I need it, of course.”

“Okay,” Abbie answers, pulling in. She presses a button to open the back, and they both climb out of the SUV.

Crane easily hauls his bike out of the back. “Would you... like to come up for coffee, or...?”

 _Yes, I would. Which is why I won't just yet._ “Maybe next time,” she says, smiling to try to soften the rejection.

He nods, not pressing the issue. “Thank you for the transportation and the date, Abbie. I... had a wonderful time.”

“Me, too,” she says, fidgeting with her fingers. “Are... you going to be at the coffee shop tomorrow afternoon?”

“Of course,” he answers, brightening. “Will you join me?”

“What if you have students?”

“I generally do not, but we could most certainly work around that. We could sit at adjoining tables and communicate via text messages,” he says, chuckling.

“Or, I could sit with you and just move if a student arrives,” she suggests.

“That might be a better idea,” he allows.

“We don't have each other’s numbers,” she points out.

“Ah.” He immediately pulls out his phone and hands it to her. She follows suit, and they enter their numbers into one another's phones.

“There,” she says, tucking her phone back into her pocket. “Um...”

“Have a good night, Abbie,” he says, holding his hand out.

She places her hand in his, and he lifts it to his lips, kissing it. This time it is more than a light brush of lips. He kisses it softly but fully, closing his eyes as he does so.

Abbie's stomach wobbles slightly. “Good night, Ichabod,” she says. He caresses her knuckles with his thumb, then releases her hand.

“Until tomorrow, dear Lieutenant,” he softly answers, her title sounding like an endearment.

She smiles one more time, then ducks into her car.

Crane walks to the door of his building. He opens it, and looks over her shoulder to see Abbie watching, waiting to see that he gets safely inside. He gives her a small wave, and she drives away.

_She's wonderful._


	4. Chapter 4

“Am I late?” Abbie asks, standing with her tray balanced on one hand.

Crane's head snaps upward in surprise, not having heard her approach. He immediately stands and removes the tray from her hand, setting it on the table. “Not at all,” he assures her, smiling warmly at her as he pulls out a chair and offers his hand. “You arrived exactly when I expected you would in fact.”

She returns his smile, places her hand in his, and sits. He bends and kisses her hand, his lips warm and soft on her cold hand, then returns to his seat.

“I, um... got you a scone,” she says, offering the plate. “It's blueberry.” She remembers seeing him eat a blueberry muffin once, so she figured it would be a good bet.

“Thank you,” he says. He takes it and she removes her cup and plate from the tray, which he places on the nearest table.

“Those trays take up so much room,” she quietly says. “Have any students yet?”

“Not a one,” he answers, taking a sip of his tea before sampling his scone. “Mmm, that's quite good.”

 _He did that groaning thing again._ “I'm... glad you like it,” she says.

“What do you have there?” he asks, leaning closer.

“Hot cocoa and a chocolate-peanut butter brownie,” she answers, slightly embarrassed at her decadent snack choice.

His eyebrow quirks upward, curious and a little amused. “Sweet tooth, my sweet?” he asks.

“Little bit,” she admits, smiling as she drops her eyes to her plate. “I try to stay away from caffeine after lunch, hence the cocoa. And, I like brownies. And, peanut butter.” Her eyes widen and she adds, “You don't have a peanut allergy or anything, do you?”

“No,” he answers, chuckling warmly. “But, I trust you are aware that chocolate does contain caffeine.”

“Yes, but it's minimal compared to coffee,” she points out. “I looked it up,” she adds, saluting him with her cup. She pokes her plastic fork into the corner of the messy brownie and breaks off a bite.

Crane watches her lift the fork to her lips, and for a moment, becomes jealous of a fork. _Those lips are magnificent._ Abbie catches him watching and he quickly looks away, cheeks slightly coloring.

“Would you like to try a bite?” she asks, hoping that was the reason he was staring, but also not hoping it was at all.

“Oh, um, yes,” he answers.

She digs her fork in again, but instead of handing him the utensil, she turns it and offers him the bite, lifting it towards his lips. He leans forward and allows her to feed him, the rich chocolate exploding in his mouth, balanced by the mild saltiness of the peanut butter. It is rich and sticky and delicious and he wants more.

He groans, and Abbie almost drops the fork. _You need to stop making that sound in public._ “I must remember this item,” he says after he swallows.

“That shouldn't be a problem for you,” she replies, smiling.

“Indeed not,” he agrees.

“I would have gotten one of these for you as well, but I didn't know if you'd like it. I don't remember seeing you eat anything like this before,” she explains, pointing her fork at the brownie. “Wasn't sure if you liked sweets.”

Crane's smile is just a tad wolfish, and Abbie's heart speeds up a little. “Oh, I do. Very much in fact.”

“I'll... remember that for next time,” she says. Then, she blinks a few times and takes a drink of her cocoa.

“May I offer you a bite of the delicious scone you so nicely purchased for me?” he asks.

She giggles. “I like the way you turn a phrase, Ichabod,” she says. “And, yes, I would love a bite, thank you.”

Crane picks up the triangle of pastry, ponders it a moment, then breaks off a small chunk. Then, he offers it to her from his fingers. “They're clean, I promise,” he says with a slight smile.

 _He has incredibly sexy hands._ Abbie lifts her hand, but instead of taking the piece of scone, she simply touches his hand with her fingers, steadying it as she leans forward to take the bite from his fingers with her lips.

His fingertips barely brush her lips, but he indulgently allows them to linger near her face for a moment, brushing an errant crumb from the corner of her mouth with his long index finger before withdrawing it.

“It's very good,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “But... the brownie is better,” she adds, smiling impishly.

He nods, agreeing. “Yes, it is,” he laughs.

She scoots her chair a little closer to his. “So. How was your afternoon?” They had lunch together, so they only have a few hours of the day on which to catch one another up.

They converse quite comfortably until their drinks have gone cold and their snacks have been reduced to crumbs. They talk a lot about their classes and students, sharing amusing anecdotes about classroom activities and trading horror stories about answers they've seen on exams.

“I think I'd like some water,” Abbie says after an hour, pushing her chair back. “All that chocolate, you know.”

“I'll get it,” Crane says, placing his hand on her chair. He collects the spent items on the table and disposes of them as he goes to the register to procure a bottle of water.

His phone buzzes once while he's away. She glances at it only because it made a sound and lit up for a moment, but takes no notice otherwise. She pulls her own phone from her pocket and checks it for any messages. _Couple of Facebook updates. One email, junk._

“Here we are,” Crane returns, setting two bottles of water on the table.

“Thanks,” Abbie says, taking a drink. “Your phone buzzed while you were gone.”

“Ah. Thank you.” He picks it up, gives it a cursory glance, then sets it back on the table. “Abraham,” he explains.

She nods.

“Abbie, are you available to have dinner with me tonight?” he asks, reaching over and gently taking her hand in his.

“Ichabod, I... I'd love to, but... I have plans with my sister,” she answers.

“Oh. Well, then, perhaps another time,” he says, not hurt, but still disappointed.

“I'm free tomorrow night,” she offers. “I mean... if you are...”  
“Tomorrow night would be perfect,” he replies, brightening. “Do you like Thai food?”

“I _love_ Thai food,” she says, her eyes lighting up.

“Is Thai Lotus to your liking? Not that we have another option, mind... unless we left town...”

She laughs. “Sounds great. I can't wait,” she says. _Should I cancel with Jenny? No, I can't do that. She would totally understand, but... no. It wouldn't be cool._

“Your sister was with you at the football game last weekend?” Crane asks, taking a drink from his water.

Abbie watches his Adam's apple slide up and down while he drinks before she answers. “Um... yes. Yes, that's my younger sister Jenny.”

“May I ask what are your plans with her tonight? I am curious,” he asks.

“Oh, you know, girl stuff. We'll probably get a pizza, maybe do a little shopping. Okay, definitely do a little shopping,” she chuckles. _Maybe I can find something to wear tomorrow night._ “Go back to either her place or mine and watch a movie.”

“Sounds very enjoyable,” he says, smiling, but his smile is a little sad.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asks, moving their still-joined hands to thread her fingers through his.

“No, I do not. But, I do miss my family sometimes,” he admits. “Your hand is so tiny,” he observes.

“Only because yours is huge,” she counters. “It must be difficult, to be away from your family like you are. I mean, I only have Jenny, but I would still miss her.”

“Well, thankfully, technology makes it easier. Facebook and Skype are wonders. My mother is better with those than my father. He's completely hopeless,” he laughs.

Abbie chuckles as well, remembering how she had to help Corbin with his first smart phone.

“May I ask...?” Crane's voice draws her from her memories.

“About my parents?” she finishes. “They died when Jenny and I were young. I was 13, Jenny was 11. We spent time in foster homes after that, because we have no other family.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” he answers, sympathetic, but not pitying her.

“Not gonna lie, it wasn't always fun. I may or may not have been a bit of a juvenile delinquent. Or, at least I was well on my way. Jenny, too. Sheriff Corbin, um... he was my partner, the one who was killed,” she pauses and he nods, indicating he remembers. “He kind of saved us. Straightened us out. He could have had us thrown in Juvie – Juvenile Detention – but didn't.”

“You have had a fascinating life, Abbie,” he says, watching her attentively, absorbing every word. “It must be why you are such a fascinating woman.”

She presses her lips together and looks down at the table, then takes another drink from her water. “Thank you,” she finally answers.

“I assume it was Sheriff Corbin who inspired you to become a police officer?” he asks.

“Yes,” she nods. “And, Jenny is a social worker, helping troubled teens. She's very good at it.”

“Because she's been there,” he volunteers.

“And, because she doesn't put up with any of their crap,” Abbie adds, snorting a laugh.

“An important quality indeed,” Crane says, laughing with her.

Abbie glances at the time. “Ugh, I probably should be going. I have a few things to do before I meet Jenny,” she says, but doesn't really look like she wants to go. “Are your 'office hours' over?”

“They were over thirty minutes ago,” he says, dismissively waving his hand. “But, we should probably relinquish the table.”

“Yeah,” she says, reluctantly extracting her hand from his and standing. Her cane clatters to the floor and he immediately bends to retrieve it for her. “Thank you,” she says.

“You're welcome,” he says. “Shall we?”

She takes his arm before he offers it, standing close to his side as they walk out. He sees her to her car, and they regard one another in the parking lot for a moment.

“So, what time tomorrow night?” Abbie asks, breaking the silence. “Since you don't drive, I'll come pick you up,” she adds, lightly poking him in the chest.

“Six?” he offers, wanting to say “noon”.

“Sounds good,” she answers, wishing he had said “noon”.

“I shall make reservations,” he says.

“I'll pick you up at ten to six then.”

He nods, saying nothing. Then, he lifts his hand to her cheek and sighs. “I had intended for a more appropriate locale...” his voice trails off. He leans down, tenderly tilting her face up to his, and softly kisses her. “But, I am apparently unable to wait any longer,” he finishes his statement, his lips hovering inches from hers.

“I'm glad you didn't wait,” she whispers, leaning up to kiss him in return, the fingers of her right hand clutching the lapel of his jacket while her left hand grips her cane, even though she really wants to drop it and wind her arms up around his neck. His hand finds her waist, gently supporting her, his other still lingering by her face. When she pulls back, she stares up into eyes that are as dazed as her own. “Hoo...” she exhales.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his brain pleasantly fuzzy. “Indeed,” he amends, smiling.

Abbie giggles at his momentary lapse of formality, vowing to make it come back. Soon. “I should go,” she says.

“Until tomorrow, dear one,” Crane murmurs, dipping his head for one more taste of those soft, succulent lips to tide him over for the next 26 hours.

“Tomorrow,” she echoes. She releases her hold on his coat and digs for her keys, pressing the button to unlock her car, forgetting she had already unlocked it. “Duh,” she says, chuckling.

He reaches over and opens the door for her. She climbs in and smiles at him once more. “I had a really good time, Ichabod.”

“As did I, Abbie. I am very much looking forward to our dinner tomorrow night,” he says.

She reaches over and touches his cheek. He turns his head and places a soft kiss on her palm. “See you tomorrow,” she says, dropping her hand.

He nods, steps back, and gently closes her door as a black Dodge Charger slowly drives past, further into the parking lot, looking for a space.

Abbie starts her car and watches Crane unlock his bike. _Better make sure he can get his bike free,_ she justifies. _Wouldn't want to potentially leave him stranded or anything._

He sees her waiting, waves, and pulls his bike from the rack. As he does this, the Charger approaches, heading towards the exit this time. Crane believes he sees the young football player behind the wheel. He looks closer. _Yes. That is Brooks._ As Abbie pulls out of her parking spot, the Charger slows down, waiting. She drives away, turning left out of the lot.

The Charger turns right.

Crane mounts his bicycle and pedals towards home, his thoughts continually drifting to Abbie and her wonderful laughter. Her quick, lively brain. Her sweet, lush lips.

In her car, Abbie's fingers absently trace her lips while she waits at a traffic light. _His beard isn't as scratchy as I would have thought. It wasn't scratchy at all._

_Even if it was, I don't think I would mind._

 

xXx

 

Abbie looks at the clock. 5:38. _About damn time._ She shrugs her jacket on, grabs her small purse, sighs, reaches for her cane, and heads out.

Saturday took _forever._ She finished grading papers, prepared lessons for next week, and still had time to clean her apartment. The only beneficial thing which resulted from that is she had to redo her nails after cleaning. That’s always a good way to use up time. Jenny gave her a manicure and facial last night after helping her find a new outfit for her date. Of course, she did all this while making remarks ranging from merely sassy to downright lewd.

Before Jenny left, she told Abbie she was really happy for her and hopes the date goes well.

Abbie turns her Jeep down Crane's street, and checks her hair in the rear view mirror one more time. _Why am I so nervous? I've seen him every day. We've eaten together plenty of times._

 _Because this is the first time you've really put in an effort,_ another voice in her head answers.

Crane steps out of his building as she pulls into his parking lot, standing ramrod straight, his hands behind his back. His face lights up when he sees her, and it makes her heart happily thump in her chest. He's wearing his black wool coat over a pair of dark gray trousers and a sage green shirt. His hair is pulled back in its usual ponytail, and a few tendrils blow in the breeze.

_He looks good. I wonder what he looks like with his hair down._

She rolls down the passenger side window as he strides forward. “Hey baby, you need a ride?” she calls, grinning at him.

“Well, I wouldn't normally accept a ride from a strange woman, but...” he answers, opening the door and climbing in, “I think I'll make an exception tonight, as you are especially beautiful.” He leans towards her and she meets him halfway to kiss him hello.

“Hi,” she says, smiling at him. “Oh,” she adds, reaching up to wipe her lipstick from his lips. “I decided to wear lipstick, sorry.”

“And, therefore, so shall I,” he chuckles. “Is it a good color on me?” He feels warmth spread through him at the sound of her laughter.

 

xXx

 

Dinner is excellent in every way. The waitress was polite and efficient. The food was delicious. The company was wonderful.

The waitress returns with their packaged leftovers and asks about dessert or anything else.

Abbie looks over at Crane, her expression hinting she _might_ like dessert.

“May we have a minute?” he asks.

“Of course,” the waitress nods and briskly walks away to tend another table.

Crane hesitates a moment, contemplating how to say, “I made dessert because I was hoping you'd come up to my flat after dinner” without making it sound creepy.

“I don't need any dessert really,” she says, smiling and taking his hand.

“I baked an apple pie today,” he simply answers.

“Is that so?” she asks, coyly smiling.

“It is indeed so, yes,” he answers, returning her smile. “If you would be willing to accompany me to my home, I would be more than happy to serve you dessert.”

Abbie’s mind briefly goes for a visit to the gutter, then regroups. “Do you have vanilla ice cream?”

“What good is apple pie without vanilla ice cream?” he replies. “I also have caramel sauce,” he adds just to further entice her.

She raises her own eyebrow and asks, “Ooo, you _do_ know how to serve dessert,” she says.

This throws him, and she bites back her grin as she sees _his_ mind take the same trip to the gutter hers took a few moments ago. “Um,” he stumbles, clearing his throat, “apparently so.”

“Sold,” she says. _As if I was going to say no anyway._

“Excellent,” he declares, smiling wider as his heartbeat speeds up. He waves the waitress back over and asks for the bill.

 

xXx

 

“This is a nice place,” Abbie says, looking up at his building, a three-story brown brick complex; nondescript, but clean.

“It's adequate. I was thinking of purchasing a house, but I have not yet found anything I like well enough,” Crane says, opening the door for her.

They walk across the lobby to the elevator, and Crane presses the button. “I'm on the top floor, so I am quite thankful there's a lift.”

“Me, too,” she says, tapping his foot with her cane.

He smiles at her as the elevator doors open. “After you, my lady.”

The atmosphere inside the elevator is thick and electric. Abbie and Crane stand side by side, not speaking. The fingers of Crane's left hand unconsciously flex at his side.

Just as Abbie is about ready to say, “Screw it,” and pull him down by his lapels so she can kiss him, the doors open.

Crane clears his throat and follows her out into the corridor. “This way.”

He leads her down the hall past two doors, then stops in front of the third which he unlocks and opens. “Please,” he gestures for her to enter.

“Thanks,” she says, walking in.

Abbie looks around, checking out his home. She immediately sees his bike hanging on a set of large hooks on the wall beside the door. His apartment is both immaculate and sparse, with few decorations but stylish, simple furniture. One wall bears a large bookshelf neatly filled with books (alphabetized, undoubtedly). There is a television and Blu-Ray player, but she doesn't see any disks. _They might be inside the television cabinet._ She sees a small kitchen to one side and two doors on the other.

“Welcome to my home, Abbie. It isn't much, I'm afraid,” he says.

“It's very nice,” she reassures him. “I like it. Um, I just need to...” she gestures toward one of the doors.

“Ah, yes. Help yourself, of course. I'll warm the pie,” he says.

Abbie smiles and walks to the bathroom, wondering why the phrase “warm the pie” sounded so erotic coming out of his mouth. She closes the door and shakes her head.

A few minutes later, Abbie joins him in the kitchen. “Your bathroom is nicer than mine, I think,” she says, sitting in one of the chairs at the small table.

“Oh?” he asks, curious.

“This is a newer building. You have nicer fixtures,” she says. _Boring..._ a little voice goads her. “Um, yeah. I don't know why I thought that was interesting.”

He smiles and angles his head at her as though he did actually find her words interesting. “You are a very interesting woman, Abbie,” he tells her. “I enjoy your company very much.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling. “I like you, too, Ichabod. I—” her phone chirps, interrupting her. She ignores it.

“I do not mind if you check that,” Crane says, bending down to pull two plates out of the oven, each bearing a beautiful slice of apple pie.

Abbie can't help checking out the view as he bends over. _Not bad_ , she assesses, withdrawing her phone from her purse, which she had set on the small dining table. _Not bad at all. Must be all that bike riding._ Jenny has sent a text.

_J: How's the date going?_

_A: I'm about to have pie with Ichabod._

She hesitates a moment before hitting the _Send_ button, knowing she's opened the floodgates for her mischievous sister.

_J: I hope “have pie” is some sort of euphemism._

Abbie has to bite back the snort of laughter threatening to escape. She glances up to see Crane warming some caramel sauce in the microwave. There is a container of vanilla ice cream on the counter beside him, and he is humming softly to himself.

_A: You wish._

_J: YOU wish._

_A: I'll call you later._

_J: You're no fun._

_A: You know it. Tell you about it tomorrow._

_J: Okay. I'll leave you to your “pie”. ;)_

Chuckling, Abbie puts her phone on the table just as Crane is walking towards her with the plates on a tray.

“The plates are hot,” Crane explains. “Shall we take our dessert in the sitting room? I'm afraid these kitchen chairs aren't terribly comfortable.”

“Sure,” she agrees, standing and following him into the living room. They sit together on the couch. Abbie leans her cane against the end table.

He hands her a plate, resting on a linen napkin to protect her hands. “I do hope you like it,” he says. “I fancy myself something of an amateur baker, so if you hate it, please be kind.”

She smiles. “It smells really good,” she says. “And, it was smart to warm them in the oven. The microwave just makes the crust soggy.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry, would you care for some coffee or tea or... no, you said you do not take caffeine this late... milk?”

“I'm good, thanks.” She takes a bite of pie, striving for the perfect balance of pie, ice cream, and caramel all in one bite. “Mmm, this is really good,” she says. “Better than the diner's.”

He smiles broadly at her, then digs in as well. “Thank you. That is high praise.”

They eat quietly, sitting close together on the couch, their bodies angled toward one another. He sets his plate back on the tray, and as he moves, his left knee brushes her right.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs.

“It's fine,” she reassures him.

Abbie finishes her pie and he takes the plate from her, setting it aside.

“Oh, dear, you seem to have a bit of caramel there,” Crane says.

“Where?” she asks, lifting her hand to her face.

He moves closer. “Just at the corner... here.” Abbie thinks he's going to dab it for her with a napkin, but instead he leans in and places a soft, wet, slightly open-mouthed kiss on the corner of her mouth, sucking the bit of caramel sauce from her lip.

Her eyes close and she softly gasps. Then, she turns her head just an inch and fully connects her lips with his.

He groans, sounding very nearly like he did when he took a bite of that brownie yesterday, and she feels herself melting into warm goo.

Crane leans further into her, his tongue searching for hers, tangling with it, sliding against it, and Abbie's hands move up around his shoulders, holding on as she finds herself beneath him on the couch.

“Was there really... caramel... on my face?” she manages to ask between kisses.

“Yes,” he answers. Then, he kisses her deeply, sweeping his tongue through her mouth, sending a tingle down her spine. “It was delicious,” he throatily adds. He moves, trailing hot kisses down her jaw to her neck, showing her how delicious he thinks _she_ is.

“Oh...” Abbie breathes, slightly reeling from his ardor. _I never would have expected him to be this demonstrative... passionate._ “Oh, right there,” she gasps when he finds a spot she especially likes. Her hand strays into his hair, lightly holding his head as he kisses her neck, paying special attention to the place she pointed out.

Crane's hand slides on her waist, her shirt bunching slightly under it. _Take care, Ichabod. You are losing your head and you just met this woman days ago._ The thought plays through his mind, but his lips and his hands pay no heed as he continues to kiss her. He makes his way back to her lips and attempts to slow down.

“Abbie, I... I don't normally...” he starts, his hand still holding her side, but higher, on her ribcage now. His large hand spans from the waist of her pants to the bottom edge of her bra, a detail of which he is acutely aware. His thumb twitches, nearly nudging the bottom of her breast.

“Neither do I...” she interrupts, her voice breathy. She leans her head up and kisses him again. “Should we... should we stop?”

“Do you wish to stop?” he asks, and Abbie immediately knows that all she would have to say is “yes” and he would.

“Would you think less of me if I said no?” she asks, biting her lower lip.

“Definitely not,” he answers.

Her hand is still resting on the back of his neck, fingers threaded through his hair, so she simply pulls down and he returns his lips to hers, beginning by lightly biting her lower lip.

“Oh,” she softly grunts.

“Looked good when you did it just now,” he murmurs just before kissing her fully once again. After a moment, his thumb shifts again, just lightly stroking the bottom of her breast.

She takes his hand in hers and moves it up, and he groans into her as his fingers flex, gently squeezing the soft mound, sized perfectly to his hand. His thumb skims the surface of it, rubbing lightly over her stiff nipple, discernible even through the layers of her shirt and bra.

“Mmm,” she moans against his lips. Her hand slides down his back, and she can feel his muscles and sinews through his shirt. _He's built under there. He's thin, but there are muscles under that shirt._ “Ichab…” she gasps, her lips freed as he kisses down her neck again, moving a little lower this time, nudging into the opening of her blouse to kiss the small amount of cleavage exposed there. She arches into his hand as he gently kneads her breast, pushing it higher in an attempt to reach more of her with his lips.

“Your skin is like silk,” he murmurs, kissing every exposed inch. “And, so sweet,” he adds, his voice so low it is nearly a soft rumble.

She moves her hand lower and grabs his backside. He grunts in surprise, but doesn’t stop the trail of kisses he is blazing back to her lips.

“Mmm, you’ve got some booty,” Abbie purrs, giving a squeeze. “I like that. Firm-mmm…” Crane closes his lips over hers as she finishes talking, hungrily plundering her mouth with his tongue. He moves his hips just slightly, and she feels the hard length of him press against her thigh.

She moans into his mouth and he rolls his hips against her. Then, as though electrocuted, they break apart, simultaneously pushing away from one another, breathing heavily. Crane quickly sits back off of Abbie, while she scoots up so she is sitting again.

“Whoa…” he breathes, blinking.

“Yeah,” she agrees, smoothing her hair. She looks up at him and cannot help but smile at his slightly disheveled appearance. His lips are swollen and pink, eyes glazed, and much of his hair has come loose. _I’m sure I look about the same._

He shifts a bit as his physical response to her begins to wane. “Forgive me, Abbie… I didn’t intend…”

“I know you didn't,” she says. “It’s okay. I got a little carried away there, too.”

He reaches over for her hand and kisses her fingers. “I am far too fond of you to be so disrespectful as to... proceed where we were likely headed in such short order.”

“I really like you, too,” she says, smiling. “God, I sound like I'm 16...” she laughs. Then, she angles her head at him. “But, just for the record, I wouldn’t have let things go that far anyway.”

His eyes widen. “Oh! Of course not. I never thought... I mean, I did not mean to imply that at all, dear one. I was simply speaking on my own behalf, because I fear I would have kept going had you also been game.” He leans towards her and kisses her once. “But, you may rest assured that my actions in this area will always be guided by your words.”

Abbie kisses him again before he moves away. “Okay. Thank you,” she whispers, not sure how else to respond. _He's more of a gentleman than any man I've ever dated. Possibly ever known._ “I had a really good time tonight,” she says. “The whole evening, not just this part,” she indicates the couch area with her hand.

“As did I,” he agrees.

“I do have to say I am a little surprised though,” she says, grinning impishly.

“How so?” he asks, curious.

“Well, you’re very… demonstrative,” she says. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting. British guys are supposed to be stuffy and reserved. From what I understand anyway.”

He chuckles and scoots closer, kissing her again. “Well, I must confess something,” he says.

“Hmm?”  
“I didn’t _choose_ to leave England,” he looks down at her and she sees a teasing glint in his eyes.

“No?” she asks, trying unsuccessfully not to smile.

“I was exiled for being overly ardent. They said my upper lip wasn’t nearly stiff enough,” he informs with mock-seriousness.

“Mmm, well, I can definitely attest to that,” she says, leaning up to take said upper lip in between her lips, nipping it lightly, then sucking on it a little. “Very pliable.”

“Abbie…” he groans, then surrenders, capturing her lips with his again.


	5. Chapter 5

The next week progresses quickly and pleasantly for Abbie and Ichabod. They didn't see one another Sunday, but exchanged numerous text messages. They spoke on the phone in the evening, talking about anything and everything until they very nearly fell asleep.

Abbie found she loved the sound of Ichabod's dark, velvety voice murmuring, “Good night, Abbie,” into her ear just before she drifts off to sleep.

Late Monday morning, Abbie receives a flower delivery to her office with a lovely card bearing the message _My thoughts ever stray to the sound of your voice in my ears, the feel of your lips against mine. Yours, Ichabod._

“Those from your British boy?”

Abbie looks up to see Frank Irving leaning against her doorway, looking at the vase of flowers on her desk.

She glances at the flowers, colorful daisies and mums in an array of seasonal oranges and yellows and casually says, “What, these? Nah, these are from Dwayne Johnson.” She looks back down at the paper she was marking, circles something, and continues. “I keep telling him that the two of us can never be, but… the man is persistent. It’s kind of sad really.” She peeks up at Irving, not moving her head.

He laughs, stepping inside and sitting opposite her. “I’ve met Dr. Crane once or twice. Seems like a good guy,” he says.

“Thanks, Dad,” she answers.

“Yeah, I'm checking up, you got me,” he admits, raising his hands in surrender. “I just want to make sure he's treating you right, that's all.”

“I met him last Wednesday, and we've been on two dates,” she says, setting her pen down. “And, the first one just kind of happened because it was raining and I gave him a ride home. We stopped for a bite to eat, and...” she bites her lower lip, “sort of acknowledged our mutual attraction.”

Irving chuckles. “Yeah, I was wondering when he was going to muster up some courage and finally talk to you,” he says.

Abbie's jaw drops. “What? How did you know...?”

Irving leans back in his chair, his patented assume-I-know-everything look on his face. “Mills, you may be good at observation and reading people, but you're still just a child compared to the Master,” he says, pointing at himself.

Abbie laughs, shaking her head. “Keep telling yourself that, old man,” she says.

“Saw him walking behind you one day. Your boy almost walked into a lamp post he was checking you out so hard,” he says.

“He did not,” she protests, laughing.

Irving holds up a hand. “If I'm lying, may God strike me down,” he swears.

Abbie smiles and looks down, then glances at her flowers again. “He's really cool actually,” she says. “A complete and total gentleman.” _And, a really good kisser._

“Gentleman, hey? Well, I hope it's not just an act to get what he wants,” Irving says, glancing at his watch and standing. “He steps one British toe out of line, you just let me know,” he concludes.

“Don't think that'll be necessary, but thanks,” she says, smiling at him. “You'd better get to class. Those freshmen cannot be trusted.”

He waves and exits her office just as Abbie's cell phone buzzes on her desk. She had called Crane to thank him for the flowers, but he was in class, so she left a voicemail.

“Hey,” she answers, smiling.

“You are most welcome, Abbie,” he says. “I am very glad you like them.”

“I do. It was very sweet of you,” she replies, repeating her words from the message she had left.

“Will you be joining me for lunch today?” he asks.

“Definitely,” she answers. “Wouldn't miss it.”

“Excellent.”

“See you then,” she says, standing and gathering her things for her next class.

 

xXx

 

Wednesday, Abbie has an idea. She won't be seeing Crane at lunch today, but she had lunch with him Monday and Tuesday as well as walking to and from their buildings together (with Crane insisting upon carrying her bag as she is still using her cane) both days.

She stares at her phone, sitting on the table in front of her, as she eats her lunch. She's all caught up on all her games and is feeling rather smug about the 71 point word she just played against her sister. Procrastinating, he looks again to see if anyone has played back.

_Just text him. You're a grown woman._

“Screw it,” she mutters to herself, navigating to her text conversations. She pokes the thread with Crane, quickly types _Would you like to come to my place for dinner Saturday night? I'll cook._ and hits _Send_ before she can further analyze her motives behind the invitation. She knows he won't be replying immediately and resolves to ignore the butterflies in her stomach while she waits.

 

xXx

 

Crane returns to his office and sees the light flashing on his phone, sitting on his desk. He picks it up, hoping it is a voicemail or text from Abbie. When he reads her message, he smiles broadly and replies.

_I would love to have dinner with you Saturday._

He's still smiling at his phone when Abraham's voice interrupts.

“Come have lunch with me,” he says, standing in Crane's office doorway, looking unhappy. “You've been spending all your time with that cop. It's not healthy.”

“Lieutenant Mills and I are dating; therefore, it is completely healthy,” Crane counters, but he shrugs his jacket on anyway. “Furthermore, it has barely been a week and you are making it sound like you haven't seen me in months.”

“Yeah, well, I'm tired of eating alone. Let's go.”

“I don't suppose the campus cafeteria is to your standard.”

“God, no. Let's go to the diner. You can drive – no, wait, you can't,” he teases.

“Very droll. Lead on, Macduff.”

Some minutes later, they sit, and Crane smiles as he remembers his dinner here with Abbie just under a week ago. He doesn't look at the menu, as he knows he will be ordering the Monte Cristo sandwich.

“Know what you're having already?” Abraham asks.

“Yes. I was here with Abbie last week, as you know. The sandwich she had was very good, and I shall be ordering that,” Crane answers.

“Hmm,” Bram makes a noncommittal grunt as he peruses the menu. The waitress arrives and takes their drink order. “So, you're, what, _officially_ dating her now? Like, exclusively?” he asks, closing his menu.

“Yes. She's a wonderful person,” Crane says.

“She's pretty hot, too. What's up with that cane though?”

“Merely an old injury from her days as a police officer. It has been troubling her since she fell,” Crane explains, keeping the details to a minimum. He doesn't think Abbie would appreciate him sharing the whole story with a man she doesn't know.

“It doesn't bother you? That she needs a cane?” Abraham asks.

“No. Why would it? It has no bearing on who she is as a person.”

The waitress returns with their drinks and takes their order. Abraham orders a bacon cheeseburger and asks for separate checks. Crane orders his Monte Cristo.

“I don't know,” Abraham says, returning to their conversation. “I guess I'd find it a little off-putting.”

Crane sets his glass down with a decided _thunk_. “Why? Because she has a minor physical flaw? She isn't whole and perfect and therefore undeserving of love? I am most certainly not perfect either,” he snaps. “And, forgive me, Abraham, but I hardly think _you_ are one to judge—”

“Whoa, whoa there, Crane, put your high horse back in the stable,” Bram interrupts holding his hands up in surrender. “I didn't mean to insult your lady. The whole cane thing is just... different than what I'm used to.”

Crane raises a skeptical eyebrow at his friend. “Different can be good sometimes,” he says. “And, for the record, Abbie is nearer to perfect than anyone I've met. She is simply amazing, and I'm sorry you are unable to see that.”

“I can see that _parts_ of her are pretty amazing,” Bram suggestively says.

“Ah. And, here we see why I have not exactly been seeking out your company these days,” Crane says, laying his hands flat on the table.

“So, you _have_ been avoiding me.” Abraham leans back in his chair. “Nice.”

“Do not even try to place blame on my shoulder, Abraham. If you weren't such an arrogant, insufferable... I believe the term is _douchebag_... most of the time, I might find your company more enjoyable.”

Bram blinks, shocked at his friend's words, but he recovers quickly. “ _I'm_ arrogant? Crane, you are one of the most arrogant, superior assholes I've ever met.”

“At least I am not a pretentious dick,” Crane shoots back. “I'm sorry,” he immediately apologizes. “I do not wish to argue with you. Your attitude and behavior has been wearing on my nerves since the start of this term, but my annoyance is simply because I know that beneath all your false bravado and infantile behavior is a good man.”

Bram seems to deflate. He mutters something Crane doesn't catch, and he asks him to repeat it. “I'm jealous,” he says, louder. “You've only been dating her, what? A week? And, you just seem so damn... happy. I want that, man. I want to walk around with a smile on my face that isn't forced.”

The waitress delivers their food and quickly departs, sensing they're having quite a serious discussion.

“Did you ever consider... _not_ being a dick?” Crane asks, raising his eyebrows.

Bram actually laughs. “It's not that easy. I've been cultivating this persona for years.”

Crane's eyebrows furrow. “Cultivating a persona? Bram, you are not an actor. I would think that a professor of philosophy would be very aware of the necessity of being true to one's self.”

“You'd think that, wouldn't you?” he says with a shrug. “You know what they say though. Doctors are the worst patients.”

Crane takes a bite of his sandwich, pausing a moment to enjoy the combination of the savory, salty ham, the tang of the Swiss cheese, the smooth, custardy French toast, and the sweet garnish of powdered sugar before speaking again. “They also say 'practice what you preach.' Drop the facade, drop the false bravado, drop the 'cool' exterior, which, I assure you, is perceived as cool by no one apart from yourself, and _be_ yourself. I've seen glimpses of it, Abraham. You are a good person beneath your false exterior. Let people see that. Let _Katrina_ see that.”

“I haven't been able to talk to her yet. She is better at avoiding me than you are,” he admits.

“And yet, you still convinced me to have lunch with you,” Crane points out. “You truly wish to be with Professor Van Tassel?”

Bram nods, his mouth full of burger.

“Then, endeavor to be yourself – your _true_ self – in her presence. I met Abbie because I came to her aid. I'm not saying you will be afforded such an opportunity, but if you find yourself in a situation where you can approach her to offer your assistance, make certain that your motives for doing so are because you wish to help her, not because you wish to make yourself look good. Even if you are only able to speak with her, try asking questions and listening rather than blathering on about yourself and how _cool_ you are.”

“I'm not very interesting,” Bram admits. “That's why I act like I do. Being a dick is at least interesting.”

“Ah, but it's still being a dick,” Crane points out. He lifts the second half of his sandwich. “Try this. It's divine.”

Bram squints at it. “What kind of cheese is that?”

“Swiss.”  
“Ugh, no thanks,” he answers.

“Your loss,” Crane says, shrugs, and takes a large bite. “And, you may not think you're very interesting, but perhaps Katrina isn't interested in 'interesting'.”

“Well, considering she has the hots for you...” Bram teases.

Crane laughs. “Quite. She has actually left me alone thus far this week. Perhaps she has seen my attentions are very clearly on Lieutenant Mills.”

“Oh, she definitely has,” Bram agrees. “You obviously didn't notice her scowling behind you as you bade farewell to your lovely maiden on Monday morning.”

“Clearly not,” Crane says. _All I did was touch Abbie's elbow and smile at her._ “Though, I don't know what she could have seen. We're very conscious of our behavior with one another on campus.”

“It's all over your face, dude,” Bram says. “You're in deep.”

 

xXx

 

“Okay, that’s about it… anyone have any questions?” Abbie asks, leaning against the desk in the front of the room, surveying the collection of faces that have become very familiar. This particular group of Thursday afternoon students is comprised of young men and women who have been in several of her classes since her first year at SHU, and she knows all of them pretty well. “No? Cool. Okay, _next_ week—”

“I have a question.” A hand shoots up and she looks over.

“Yes, Mr. Mackenzie?”

“What’s going on with you and Dr. Crane?”

Abbie blinks slowly, her eyebrows rising in a very clear _Excuse me?_ gesture.

“Dan!” A young lady sitting beside Mackenzie punches him in the arm. “You can’t just _ask_ that! She’s a teacher!”  
“Ow! Damn it, Janelle! They have lunch together, like, _all the time_ , so I was just wondering…” Dan Mackenzie rubs his shoulder where his classmate struck him.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Abbie loudly continues, choosing to ignore both the question and slight altercation. “Next week, I’m going to start giving you practical examples. Harder ones.”

“More video clips we’ll need to remember stuff from?” Andy Brooks asks, not looking up from his notebook.

“That’ll be part of it,” she answers, glancing at the clock. “All right, enjoy your weekend. Be good. And, if you can’t be good—”

“Be careful,” a collection of voices chorus, finishing her statement.

“Mackenzie,” Abbie quietly calls as the students file out.

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to need to learn to keep a tighter rein on that mouth of yours if you expect to make it as a police officer,” she says, looking up at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, nodding contritely. “Sorry.”

“Go on,” she says with a slight smile, lifting her chin towards the door.

 

xXx

 

_C: What are you doing?_

_A: Watching TV. Sort of._

_C: Sort of?_

_A: What kind of food do you like?_

Crane smiles, realizing she must be thinking about their dinner the next night.

_C: I am not terribly choosy when it comes to food._

A moment later, his phone rings.

“That's not very helpful,” Abbie's voice speaks in his ear.

“Well, perhaps we should think of this from a different perspective,” Crane suggests. “What is your best dish?”

“Oh, wow, that's a hard one,” she says. “I _can_ cook, by the way. Just so you don't think I'm over here hemming and hawing because I really can't and don't want to tell you.”

“The thought never crossed my mind, darling,” he says.

Abbie smiles at his endearment. They've been growing more frequent, and Abbie finds she really doesn't mind. “Um...” she flips through the pages of a three-ring binder where she has most of her recipes. “I'll just name off some things and you holler if you hear something you like, okay?”

“Very well,” he answers, willing to play along.

“Chicken and dumplings... chicken pot pie... chili... Jamaican curried chicken... lasagna... roast beef... steak...”

“Abbie, are your recipes alphabetized?” he asks.

“Well, yeah,” she answers, as though it should be obvious. “How am I supposed to find anything otherwise?”

“Exactly,” he agrees. “I merely took notice because of the order in which you listed the choices.” He pauses. “I tend to alphabetize everything.”

Abbie giggles. “I had a feeling,” she admits. “So, do any of those choices appeal?”

“Ooo, all of them sound delicious, but... I will narrow it to chicken pot pie or Jamaican curried chicken. The ultimate choice is up to you, my dear.”

 _Curried chicken,_ Abbie decides. “Okay. I know what I'm going to make,” she says.

“Oh! That was quick,” he says. “But, don't tell me; I wish to be surprised.”

“Fair enough.”

“May I bring something?” he asks.

 _An overnight bag._ Abbie's face grows warm as she stops herself from blurting out her thought. “You like to bake... you can bring dessert,” she says.

“I was hoping you would say that,” he answers. “Do you have any preferences or aversions about which I should know?”

“I don't like peaches. Or rhubarb,” she says. “Chocolate is always a safe bet. _Especially_ dark chocolate.”

“Noted,” he says, ideas forming.

 

xXx

 

One of the reasons Abbie chose the curried chicken is because it is time consuming. She prefers to cut the chicken up into bite-sized pieces rather than leaving it whole or on the bone. Potatoes need scrubbing and cutting. So, that takes time. The chicken has to marinate for a while. As it sits, she cleans her apartment within an inch of its life – again – and does laundry.

 _I hope he doesn't think I'm just out to seduce him_ she thinks as she smoothes freshly-cleaned sheets over her bed. She's given up being in denial about how she wants the evening to turn out. She just hopes he feels the same way.

_We've only been dating about a week and a half. Maybe he's not ready yet._

_Don't be stupid. He admitted he was ready to go there_ last _Saturday._

_But, I feel kind of slutty._

_It's not like you're going to answer the door in lingerie. Just see how it goes._

Then, she opens her nightstand drawer and checks the expiration date on the box of condoms inside. They expired a year ago.

“Figures,” she mutters, throwing the box into the trash. _Well, I am on the pill, so it's probably fine. I'd be very surprised if he had some disease._

Nevertheless, she texts Jenny a very blunt question.

A few minutes later, the reply comes. _Yeah, I'll bring you some._

_A: Thanks. I'd go pick some up, but I have food to prepare._

_J: Sounds like that's not all you're preparing. :)_

Abbie sighs, but she is smiling, having expected a remark like that at some point.

_A: Thanks. I owe you._

_J: No, you don't. You're my sister._

Then, a moment later: _British guy will probably bring some along anyway._

_A: I can't assume that. I only invited him for dinner._

_J: Right. I'll be there in ten._

 

xXx

 

“This is quite good,” Crane says after he swallows his first bite of chicken.

“I could tell you liked it,” Abbie says, smiling across the table at him. “You made that groaning sound.”

He actually looks a little surprised and embarrassed that she noticed. “Yes. Well. That's a bit of a reflex, I'm afraid. It just happens.”

She angles her head at him. “And, yet, I hear you are deadly at the poker table,” she says.

He furrows his brows, thinking. “You heard my conversation with Bram a few weeks ago,” he remembers, realizing she must have been in the vicinity.

“That memory of yours comes in handy,” she chuckles, grateful she didn't have to explain where and how she heard this.

“You were wearing a... gray shirt that day, with dark blue jeans,” he says. “The brown leather jacket and brown boots. Your hair was down.”

She stares at him. “ _I_ don't even remember what I was wearing that day,” she says. “And, I didn't think you knew I was there.”

He smiles. “Of course, I did,” he replies. “I was keenly aware of your presence whenever you were near.”

“And, yet, I had to fall on my ass to get you to talk to me,” she says, laughing a little at the memory. “I felt _so_ dumb. I was like, 'Great, _this_ is how we meet...'”

“No need to feel foolish at all,” he says. “I must say I rather enjoyed coming to your rescue.”

“So, if you were 'keenly aware' of my presence, what was stopping you from talking to me?” she asks. “I know you saw me at the game a couple of weeks ago. And, yes, I fully recognize I could have spoken to you as well.”

He smiles. “To be honest, I thought you likely already had a suitor. I must confess, I was quite surprised you were single,” Crane tells her. He takes a drink of his wine.

“Why is that?” she asks, curious.

“Well, because... you are a beautiful, intelligent woman. I would think men would be clamoring to curry your favor,” he answers.

She pauses a moment, letting his words sink in. _He's serious._ “Honestly, I haven't seriously dated anyone since I left the force,” she says. She pokes a potato with her fork, looking down. “And now, I'm so busy with my class load that I haven't really had time...”

“Abbie,” he says, trying to catch her eye. “ _We_ are dating. What is it really?” he gently asks.

She looks at him. “Oh, I don't know, a crippled ex-cop who is too smart for her own good isn't the type of woman to whom men flock,” she says, setting her fork down on her plate, food still speared on the end of it. “I don't use the cane all the time, but I use it enough that it, plus the handicap tag on my license plate, generally serves as a pretty decent man repellant,” she blurts. Her eyes widen a fraction, then she hastily adds, “Present company excepted of course.”

“I am truly sorry you feel that way, my dear,” he says, reaching across the table for her hand. She places it in his, and he gently closes his fingers around it.

“Thank you. It's... it's actually no one's fault, but mine,” she says. “I mean, there wasn't a man who made me feel this way. On the other hand, there just hasn't been... _any_ man showing an interest apart from a certain overly-attentive wide receiver who happens to be one of my students. Until you.”

“I find that quite shocking,” he says. “And frankly, my opinion of the men in your vicinity – the available men in your age range, I should clarify – has lessened significantly.” He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it. “However, I have only benefitted from their lack of attendance, and for that, I am grateful.” He turns her hand and softly kisses her palm, then releases it.

She presses her lips together and shyly looks down, picking up her fork.

“You are not accustomed to such praise,” Crane says, understanding. “Forgive me if I have made you uncomfortable.”

“It's okay,” Abbie says. “And, no, I'm not used to it,” she adds, smiling a little.

“Surely, your past suitors must have praised your beauty and intellect,” he says.

“Not really. My most recent ex, which will be more than three years ago now, was another cop. A detective. Best he would manage was a 'You look hot.'”

“Deplorable,” he says, scowling. “Abbie, you are an exceedingly beautiful, wonderful, amazing woman. It pains me that you have not been told this more often.” He pauses, watching her. “And, I've done it again, haven't I?” he asks.

“A little,” she admits. “But... thank you. I think you're pretty amazing, too.”

“Thank you very much, my sweet,” he says. He sets his fork on his plate. “And, you are an excellent cook as well.” He sighs. “I am a fortunate man indeed.”

“Thanks, again,” she says. “Since we're on the subject, what about you? How is it that _you_ were still single?” she asks, steering the conversation in his direction.

“Ah. Well, I was dating a young woman for a while before I came here,” he says. “It ended badly. It turned out she was mainly interested in the, shall we say, _benefits_ that came with the Crane family name.”

“Gold digger,” Abbie nods, remembering. “I actually overheard you talking about her with Abraham while waiting for food at the game,” she admits.

“I thought as much,” he says, smiling.

“I wasn’t trying to listen, but you guys were so close and all…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he assures her, chuckling. He takes a drink and continues. “Anyway, since I arrived here, I’ve learned most women find me, well, odd.”

“You're not odd,” she counters. “Unusual, yes. I definitely wouldn't say 'odd'.” She wonders if she should mention the redhead she's seen following him around like a lost puppy.

“No, I'm odd,” he says, smiling. “I'm perfectly fine with that label. And, if I am being honest, Professor Van Tassel in the Religious Studies Department has been clamoring for my attention for at least a year.”

 _So, he does know. I suppose she hasn't been very subtle about it._ “Tall, red hair? Likes flowing dresses?” Abbie asks. Crane nods. “She's pretty.”

“True, but... I was never able to muster any feelings beyond those of friendship for her. She is intelligent and kind, but...” he trails off, shrugging lightly.

“I understand. If there's no spark, there's no spark,” she says, beginning to gather their dishes.

“Precisely,” he agrees with a decisive nod. He stands with her, helping to clear the table. “Abraham is interested in her, so hopefully he'll take the advice I gave him to stop _trying_ so hard and just be himself. Perhaps if Katrina sees that, she'll see the real man beneath all the pretense.”

“You think he will?” she asks.

“Anything is possible I suppose,” he answers, smiling a little as he follows her to the sink. “I'm glad I finally was able to tell him what was on my mind.”

“Me, too. That stuff can weigh on you if you don't unload it,” she says, remembering Wednesday night's account of his discussion with Bram as she runs water to wash the dishes. “I hope he can turn it around. If he's your friend, he must have some good qualities.”

He smiles and lifts a dishtowel from the oven door. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. Perhaps I'll introduce you soon,” he says.

“Sure,” she says. “He can practice being 'normal' on me before he unleashes himself on Katrina,” she adds.

“Interesting turn of phrase, but not a bad idea actually,” he says.

“I've got a very well-developed ‘bullshit meter’ from my time as a police officer, you know.”

He laughs. “I will remember that,” he says.

“Why, are you planning on slinging some BS my way in the near future?” she asks, looking up at him with a sly smile.

“Not anymore,” he cheekily answers.

She flicks some soap suds at him, giggling.

“Oh!” he exclaims, lightly snapping the dishtowel at her. He intentionally falls short, not actually wishing to sting her with it.

They chat a bit more, quickly finishing the few dishes.

“Your dessert looks really good, Ichabod,” Abbie says, glancing at the small flourless chocolate cake on her counter. “But, I think I need to wait a bit.”

“I am so glad to hear you say that, Abbie,” Crane answers. “I am more than happy to wait for dessert.”

“Okay.” She nods, turning away for a second to put away a pan. When she straightens up, she startles slightly because he is _right_ there. “Oh,” she softly exclaims as his hand slides around her waist.

He pulls her close and kisses her, bending down to reach her, his other hand cradling the back of her head. She lifts up on tiptoe, straining against him, her hands creeping up his chest to cling to his shoulders for support, her toes barely touching the floor anymore. She quietly whimpers, meeting his tongue with hers again and again, matching his passion with equal fervor.

Abbie breaks away, dropping back down, her feet flat on the floor. She stares up at him, her eyes wide and dark. “You're too tall,” she breathes.

“You're too short,” Crane counters, his voice breathy. Then, as if the thought of _not_ kissing her is unbearable, he leans down again.

“Wait,” she says, and he immediately stills.

“Right. Sorry, I...”

She smiles, reaches up to touch his face once, then moves out of his arms. She trails her hand down his shoulder and arm, catches his hand, and pulls him from the kitchen, leading him through the living room to her bedroom.

“Oh,” he softly murmurs, understanding.

They enter her room and she sits him on the bed, standing between his knees. In this position, she is taller, and he raises his face to gaze up at her, his hands moving to rest on her hips.

“This is what you want, right?” she asks.

“I do, very much, but only if it is what _you_ want, Abbie,” he answers, his voice low and husky.

Abbie answers by moving closer and kissing his upturned face, her tongue hungry for his. He slides his hands around, spreading his hands on her backside, squeezing gently.

Crane moves his lips down her neck, parting his lips over her collarbone to taste her skin as he moves to the v-neck of her t-shirt. She reaches her hands up into his hair and gently pulls the elastic holding his hair back so she can run her fingers through his long, soft tresses.

He groans into her cleavage, his hands moving upwards, gradually pushing her shirt upwards. She leans back just enough to reach down and yank the shirt off over her head.

“Mmm...” His hands move up to her torso, caressing her skin as his eyes drink her in. Her stomach is flat and toned, her skin glowing in the muted light of her bedroom. “Your skin is like warm silk,” he murmurs, leaning forward to place a kiss between her breasts. He runs his nose along the lace edge of her cream colored bra. “You smell divine,” he says, his lips brushing her skin.

She tugs at his shirt, pulling at the back of it. He places one more kiss on the swell of her breast, then leans back and pulls his shirt off, depositing it with hers on the floor.

Abbie runs her hands over his chest, the hair tickling her palms. His body is all sinew and muscle, a long-distance runner’s body, with no sign of fat anywhere. “Well, this is hardly fair,” she quietly remarks, lightly pinching his side. “I've seen how much you eat.”

“My mother accuses me of having a hollow leg,” Crane somewhat absently replies, pulling her close and kissing her chest again. “I like this vantage point,” he adds, licking and nibbling at her skin as his hands glide over her torso, landing on the button of her jeans. He pops it open.

She gently places her hands over his. “Remember, my left leg isn't pretty,” she softly says.

He looks up at her, cups her face in his hands, and leans up to kiss her. “Your leg could be completely gone and you would still be indescribably beautiful, Abbie,” he whispers. “Inside and out,” he adds, wishing to make it clear that he finds her desirable for more than physical reasons.

She closes her eyes and kisses him hard, his words speaking right to her heart. Then, she moves his hands back to the waist of her jeans, and he resumes his task, unzipping them as they kiss. Her jeans are snug, and she shimmies out of them, sliding the garment down her legs. She steps out of them and quickly removes her socks as well.

Crane's hands hover beside her hips as if he is almost afraid to touch her. He takes a moment to stare, committing her small, lithe body to his perfect memory. Every curve and angle. The exact shape of her belly button. How her mahogany skin contrasts with the creamy off-white of her bra and panties, which, he now notices, match. “Did you wear these for me?” he whispers.

“Yes.” She whispers the admission.

“Lieutenant Mills,” he says, looking up at her with an eyebrow saucily held aloft, “was this a planned seduction?”

She giggles and kisses his forehead, on his raised eyebrow. “More ‘optimistic’ than ‘planned’,” she says,

He chuckles warmly, bending to press a kiss to her stomach before wrapping his arms around her and leaning back onto the bed, pulling her with him.

“Oh!” she exclaims, laughing as he kisses her and rolls to the side, releasing her and standing. She pulls the covers back and sits near the pillows, watching as he removes his trousers and socks.

“Nice legs,” Abbie says, pleased to see they aren't skinny twigs. They're actually quite muscular. _Must be the bike._

“Thank you,” Crane replies, looking down at them. “I always thought I had nice calves.”

She laughs again as he walks towards her, joining her on the bed. As he sits, she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra. He leans down, kisses her shoulder, then reaches up and slides the strap from one shoulder, then the other. The garment falls to her lap and she tosses it aside.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, reaching up to gently cup one of her breasts in his large hand, caressing it with his long fingers. He kisses her again, fervently, and she leans back, lying against the pillows. She moans into his mouth as his thumb grazes her nipple, her entire body growing heated and damp under his attentions.

“Oh,” she gasps when he leaves her lips to blaze a trail to her breasts, one hand sliding down her side to her hip, fingers skimming the edge of her panties while he darts his tongue out to flick the stiffened peak of her breast before taking it into his mouth. “Mmm,” she moans, arching into him, her hands moving downward to his waist, then lower. She palms his shaft through his boxer briefs, slowly rubbing him through the soft cotton.

He groans in response, pressing into her hand, encouraging her, and she squeezes his length just hard enough to draw a grunt from his throat. “Minx,” he lifts his head just enough to speak the word, then latches on to her neck, hooking his thumb into her waistband.

“You know it,” she retorts, her voice breathy. She lifts her hips so he can slide her panties down, pulling them over her slender legs and dropping them on the floor.

He stands, quickly divests himself of his underwear, then gazes down at her for a moment, taking in all of her. She boldly stares back at him, not embarrassed in the slightest by his scrutiny because she's doing the same to him.

_Wow._

Crane returns to the bed, kissing his way up her legs. Abbie goes very still, and he softly, lovingly, kisses her left knee, gently running his fingers over the eight inch scar running down the center. He finds both bullet scars, delicately kissing each vaguely round, mottled mark in turn. Abbie doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at his tender actions, but she feels a smile spreading across her face as he moves and kisses her right knee as well, then works his way up her thigh.

He kisses her hipbone and slips one long finger into her folds.

“Ah...” she gasps, reaching down into his hair, unconsciously pushing his head where she wants him to go.

“Demanding,” he chuckles, “I quite like that.” He murmurs the words against her skin as he obeys her request. His shoulders are so broad she just drapes her legs over them.

“Ichabod...” she moans his name at the first touch of his tongue. He kisses, licks, and sucks her tender, sensitive flesh, bringing her to the pinnacle then backing off before she tumbles over the edge, tormenting her in the best way until she can't take any more and begins pulling at his hair.

“Come up here,” she pants, grabbing his ears, his shoulders, anything she can reach. “Damn, you do that like it's your _job,_ ” she remarks, kissing him deeply once he reaches her.

“Ah, but it is my job, my sweet. Your pleasure is of utmo—oh!” Her hand finds him again, taking him by surprise. “Abbie, do we need... I mean, do you have... oh, yes...” Crane loses his train of thought as she begins stroking him. “In my trouser pocket if you d...”

Abbie reaches over to her nightstand, groping in the drawer until her fingers close around a condom wrapper.

She releases him to open the condom, then rolls it over his length while he resumes kissing her neck, his hands busy elsewhere.

“Oh… now,” she gasps. He fully moves over her, settling between her thighs like they were created for him. She guides him into place, and he slowly slides into her warmth. “Mmm.”

“Ohhh…” he groans, tearing his lips away as he sinks into her, sheathing himself completely and stilling there for a moment. He drops his forehead against hers. “Abbie…” he whispers her name like it is a prayer.

She tilts her head up and kisses him. She feels full of him, surrounded by him, and it feels amazingly _good._ Right. She moves her right leg, hooking it around his hip, trying to pull him closer yet.

Crane starts to move, slowly at first, then building as their combined urgency grows, the little whimpers, gasps, and moans escaping Abbie’s lips spurring him on.

Her hands cling to his ribs, her short nails digging into his skin as she feels her body growing warm and tingly, her thighs beginning to slightly quiver. She was already so close before that it doesn’t take long before she’s crying out his name, her body bowing under his as she finally finds her release.

He reaches one hand to cup her cheek, his other still supporting his weight as he drives to his own completion. Unable to stand being so far from her lips, he bends his back to kiss her, his hand gently tilting her face up to meet him.

He thrusts a few more times, then comes with a low, breathy grunt, his hips fused to hers as he sinks slowly, carefully over her. “Bloody hell,” he softly exhales, tucking his face into her neck.

She wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Indeed, sir,” she agrees, squirming slightly from the scratchy softness of his beard against her neck.

He rolls them so she is lying atop his chest, and she moves slightly, disengaging them. She kisses him, then slides down beside him. He reaches for a tissue from the nightstand and disposes of the condom, taking care that it is wrapped neatly inside.

Abbie cuddles to his side with her head on Crane's shoulder. She drapes her left leg over his, her foot resting just below his knees.

“That was more wonderful than I possibly could have imagined,” he says at length. She nods in agreement. “And, believe me, I did do some imagining.”

She lifts her head. “Oh, did you?” she asks. “I’d like to hear about that.”

His eyes widen. “Now?”

She laughs and kisses his chest before putting her head back down. “No, not right now. But, you owe me stories.”

He laughs, relaxed and blissfully happy, his hand idly caressing her side and hip.

“What’s this from?” she asks, tracing her fingers along a curious, horizontal scar over his left pectoral.

“Childhood stupidity,” he chuckles. “I fancied myself capable of building a treehouse when I was eleven. To make a long and embarrassing story short, I found myself dangling sideways by my shirt from a tree branch with a gash in my chest from a nail and a bruised forehead.” He pauses. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Little bit,” she admits. “I’m sorry. That’s another story you’ll have to tell me in full some other time, I think.”

“Only if you can provide a similar story of your own in exchange,” he says.

“I'm sure I can come up with something,” she says, snuggling closer.

“Are you cold, Love?” he asks, reaching for the blankets to pull them up.

“Actually,” she lifts up and softly kisses him, “I want dessert now,” she murmurs against his lips.

“Mmm, yes, that does sound good. I think we successfully worked off enough of that delicious dinner to have some room,” he agrees. He kisses her once more, then slides off the bed. Abbie starts to get up as well, and he stops her. “I'll get it. It is my dessert; I shall serve you.” He leans over. “You stay here,” he kisses her, “and I will return shortly,” another kiss, “with cake.”

“Mmm, sounds good,” she says, watching him with undisguised interest as he pulls his boxer briefs on and heads out to the kitchen.

Abbie gets up and goes to the bathroom while he's puttering around her kitchen. She can hear cabinets and drawers opening and closing. “Find everything?” she calls.

“Yes, no trouble at all,” he answers.

_Of course. He probably knows where everything is already._

He returns a short time later with their dessert which they eat sitting up in bed, Crane in his underwear, Abbie wrapped in the sheet.

 

xXx

 

“Did we just work off the dessert?” Abbie asks some time later, giggling, sprawled across Crane's chest.

“Possibly,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “It is a very rich cake, so...”

She laughs harder, pushing upwards, leaning on her forearms. “I think I need a break,” she says, kissing him. “For a little bit anyway.” She moves beside him again lying on her back, lifts her left leg, and bends it a few times.

“Oh, I'm sorry, is your knee...? I was trying to be gentle,” he sits up and looks at her, concern crossing his face.

“It's fine,” she answers, smiling up at him. “If it was hurting me... during... you would know. Trust me. It just stiffens up sometimes, that's all.”

“Oh, good,” he sighs, visibly relaxing.

She reaches up and tucks his hair behind his ears, then pulls him down for a kiss. “You're amazing, Ichabod. Have I told you that?” she asks, her hands still lingering on his cheeks.

He smiles. “At dinner, I believe, but it is always nice to hear,” he answers. “And, you, Abbie, are magnificent in every way.” He kisses her, then curls on his side, pulling her into his arms.

“Tired?” she asks.

“A bit,” he answers.

She takes a deep breath. “Will you stay?” she quietly asks.

“I would love to,” he answers.

She waits for the “but”. It doesn't come, and she smiles against his chest. She feels him move to pull the blankets up further. “Wait, I have to take care of some things before I can sleep,” she says, slipping out of bed. She grabs a blue bathrobe from a hook on the back of her door and shrugs it on. “Be right back.”

“Okay,” he says, only mildly puzzled. He knows women have their little rituals and ablutions at night and in the morning, so he waits. He gets up, collects their clothes, and folds them neatly, setting them on a chair. He straightens out the blankets and makes sure the condom wrappers and tissues have all made it into the trash can. Then, he props himself up on pillows against the headboard, looking around her room. _Tasteful. Simple. Feminine, but not flowery or girly._ There's a magazine on her nightstand, so he picks that up and flips through it.

Ten minutes later, he hears her soft, slightly uneven footsteps approaching. They stop just outside the bedroom door.

“Abbie?” he calls.

“Um, Ichabod, just giving you a heads-up, I sleep with my hair wrapped in a scarf,” she says. Then, she steps into view, her head swathed in a piece of black silk.

“Oh, all right,” he answers, unconcerned. “It's quite fetching, actually.”

She smiles, relieved. Then, she looks at him, sitting up in her bed, his hair hanging in loose waves around his face, sheet draped over him. Something occurs to her, and she starts giggling.

He cocks his head. “What's funny?”

“I'm sorry... I don't mean to laugh, but... you look like... a hot version of what most white people imagine Jesus looks like...” she says, falling to giggles again.

“A ‘hot’ version?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose I should be thankful for that part at least,” he says. Her laughter is infectious, and he is soon joining her.

She removes her robe and climbs back into bed. He scoots down so he is lying beside and facing her.

She reaches over and runs her fingers through his hair. “I like it down though, honest. I wasn't kidding when I said it was hot,” she tells him.

“Maybe I should wear it down more,” he says.

Her eyes widen. “Not when you're teaching,” she says. “You'll start having students showing up for your office hours. Mostly female.”

“Well, we can't have that, now,” he agrees, leaning over to kiss her. He reaches back and switches off the light and Abbie flips onto her other side so he can spoon behind her.

She sighs, content, and drifts off to sleep in the circle of his arms.

 

xXx

 

“Come back around noon?” she asks, looking up at him. “We can have lunch and watch the Jets game.”

“May I bring lunch?” he asks, his hands rubbing up and down her back. He doesn’t really care about the Jets game, but is eager to spend more time with her. “Pizza, chicken, sandwiches?”

“Mmm, pizza sounds good, thanks,” she agrees. “Now, get going. You're going to make me late for church,” she adds, making no move to leave his arms.

“Next time, I shall bring a change of clothes so I might join you... if that is agreeable,” he ventures.

“It is,” she agrees, lifting up on tiptoe to kiss him.

 

xXx

 

Andy Brooks turns down a familiar street, the street on which he always finds himself running. He trains his eyes on the building up ahead. It's three blocks up, on the right. As he watches, he sees a figure in black, mounted on a bicycle, exiting the lot. His stride slows to a stop as the cyclist reaches the street, pausing to wait for some cars to pass. He turns back and looks up at a window – Andy knows exactly which window – smiles, waves, then proceeds down the street away from Andy.

 _Crane. It's eight in the morning..._ Realization dawns on him, and his heart sinks. He resumes his run, passing Abbie's building, imagining what must have transpired there the previous evening, and dismay curls up inside his stomach, twisting uncomfortably.


	6. Chapter 6

Andy Brooks is miserable.

It seems everywhere he looks, he sees Dr. Ichabod Crane, Professor of History.

Which could have something to do with the fact that Andy tends to frequent places favored by Lieutenant Abigail Mills, Professor of Criminal Science.

His suspicions on that Sunday morning were quickly confirmed much to his dismay. Wherever Mills was, Crane almost always was as well.

On campus, Dr. Crane and Lieutenant Mills were very careful about their behavior with one another. They rarely even touched, but Andy could see their attraction. Their connection. To him, it was as plain as day. Crane's eyes would linger on the Lieutenant's face a little too long; often settling on her lips. If caught, he would clear his throat and straighten his posture, lifting his chin and staring into the distance like a meerkat who has spotted a predator on the horizon.

Lieutenant Mills was no better, gazing up at Crane with such obvious affection and admiration a person would have to be blind not to see that the two professors were having a lot of “late night study sessions” together.

Andy knows he shouldn't be following her around. He's pretty sure she knows he does it. She's the smartest, sharpest person he's ever met, how could she _not_ know?

He's also painfully aware that his crush – not obsession; no, definitely not, he can quit any time – is something he must bear alone. He knows she will never look at him with the same expression she saves for Crane. He knows she is a professor and he, a student. He is also fully aware that those kinds of relationships are frowned upon by almost everyone.

Especially someone like the Lieutenant, who is not only a former cop, but also one of the most morally upstanding people Andy knows. She would never have a relationship with a student, even if said student is less than ten years her junior and would worship the ground on which her tiny feet trod.

He knows his interest in Lieutenant Mills is really becoming a problem. His schoolwork is starting to slip because of it. His coach has noticed his distraction, and has threatened to bench him “unless you can get your shit sorted.”

Andy tries not to hate Dr. Crane. He knows the professor is a good guy and, from what Andy can see, treats the Lieutenant very well.

Treats her better than he could probably.

At least, publicly. Publicly, Crane is always carrying her heavy leather satchel when they walk to class. He always opens doors for her and behaves like a perfect gentleman. There are often flowers on her desk, and yesterday, Andy stopped in her office to ask a (legitimate) question about an upcoming quiz and spotted a small stuffed panda sitting beside the latest vase of flowers.

Publicly, Dr. Crane is a Model Boyfriend.

However, Andy doesn't know how they behave in private. He doesn't _want_ to know.

Certainly, he's fantasized about Lieutenant Mills' private behavior. Once, to the point where his roommate came right out and asked him, “Who the hell is Abbie?” and Andy had to pretend he didn't know and claim he must have been dreaming and talking in his sleep.

But, those fantasies were always about Abbie and _h_ _im_ _._ Not Crane.

He should be happy for her. Happy she has found someone.

But, is she _really_ happy? Does Crane treat her as well behind closed doors (off campus) as he does publicly?

_She's a grown woman and a former police officer. She can take care of herself. Besides, she shows no signs of hiding mistreatment._

_She taught me what those signs are._

Hating himself, he continues to follow her because it's become too much of a habit to stop. He drives without thinking, finding himself pulling into a lot because he sees her car or driving down the street where she lives.

He has found Crane's apartment building, and has taken note of the number of times he's seen the Lieutenant's Jeep parked there. He can only assume that when her car is not there, Crane is at her place. He finds himself wishing Crane had a car.

He clings to the weak hope he'll catch them in an argument or find Lieutenant Mills without her British shadow. It wouldn't make all of the time and effort he has spent over these two and a half years seem so... pointless. He could still delude himself that maybe... one day...

As the weeks wear on, this hope fades. Only once did Andy see them having what appeared to be a... heated discussion – not even an argument. Just as his hope began to rekindle, Crane said something to make his favorite professor smile.

Most of the time, they're so painfully sweet and wonderfully _comfortable_ with one another Andy isn't sure any more if he's specifically jealous of Crane or what the history professor has with Lieutenant Mills.

Now, sitting in his car in the parking lot of the diner, Andy watches them happily celebrate their two month anniversary, and he resigns himself to the fact that they appear to be in this for the long haul.

Andy sighs, pulls his car out of thelot, and heads home to have his own gourmet dinner of ramen noodles, reheated wings, and cheap beer.

Just before he passes out, sprawled across his bed in his underwear, he decides he needs to make sure Dr. Crane will not hurt his Lieutenant.

 

xXx

 

“Was it too... corny?” Crane asks, still tangled with Abbie in her bed, slightly sleepy and perfectly content.

“Was what too corny?” she asks, lifting her head from his chest.

“Taking you to the diner tonight to mark our two month anniversary.” He kisses her forehead. “Two months,” he repeats and smiles. “I've really enjoyed getting to know you, Abbie, and very much look forward to many more days simply doing that. I do not know which star of good fortune smiled upon and blessed me with you, but I am grateful for it every day.” He kisses her forehead and continues. “That all being said, I will admit I was afraid returning to the place at which we had our first date might be perceived as lazy, corny, or even somewhat juvenile,” he clarifies.

Abbie chuckles and kisses him. “It was sweet. I had a wonderful time.” She leans up on his chest, supporting herself on her forearms. “I don't need extravagant gestures or expensive gifts, you know that.” She trails her fingers through his chest hair, drawing vague circular patterns.

“I do,” he nods. “You are a woman of simple tastes who nevertheless deserves the best of everything.”

She smiles. “Well, I have the best boyfriend. That much I know.” She snuggles against him, his shoulder comfortable and familiar, her mind drifting a little. She feels him sigh contentedly and knows despite his confident exterior, he needs these little reassurances. He was more hurt by his ex-girlfriend, Mary, than Abbie realized. She discovered this because of a horse they saw while out driving. Abbie said she'd never ridden a horse, and when Crane expressed surprise at this, she made a joking comment about him being a “spoiled rich kid”. Once she saw how it stung him, she immediately apologized, and he admitted he was being foolish and sensitive about his family's wealth, even stating unequivocally that he knows Abbie is not Mary. Once he began to talk more about it, she learned the dismissive tone he used the few times he'd mentioned Mary was hiding the fact that his ego was dealt a massive blow. When he apologized for ruining their outing, Abbie pulled to the shoulder and stopped the car. She turned to him, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Part of being in a relationship is helping each other through the bad, because that's what makes the good even better.” Abbie’s eyes threatened to mist as she remembers the grateful look of relief in Crane’s once her words penetrated his self-censure.

“You are too kind,” he says, his soft voice breaking into her reverie as he wraps his arms around her and rolls them so she is beneath him. “And, I am very fortunate to have you as well, my dear Abbie,” he adds, his voice low as he leans down to kiss her.

Abbie pulls back before they get carried away again. “Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?” she asks.

Crane blinks at her, thrown off by her sudden change of topic. “Well, generally Abraham's mother invites me, but I declined this year.”

“Why did you decline?” she asks, though she has a suspicion.

“Well, my sweet,” he drops his head and kisses her, “I was rather hoping to receive an invitation from someone else.”

She smiles slyly. “Professor Van Tassel?” she asks, giggling. He slides his hand down and pokes her ribs in just the right spot. She squeals and jumps. “Okay, okay, will you come over for Thanksgiving?” she asks, laughing. “Please,” she adds.

“I would love to. Will Miss Jenny be there? I should like to see her again,” he says.

“Yeah, she'll be there. Plus Frank Irving and his family. We take turns hosting. It's my turn this year,” she says, smiling as she remembers Jenny and Crane's first meeting. Crane loved her younger sister’s straightforward nature and sharp wit.

Crane nods, but his attention is drifting elsewhere. Currently, he is more interested in kissing her neck than discussing Thanksgiving plans.

“You can bring pie,” she breathes, now distracted as well. _I hope “have pie” is some sort of euphemism._ Jenny's text from nearly two months ago drifts back into her head, and she starts laughing again.

“Something funny, Lieutenant?” he asks, his voice mockingly haughty, left eyebrow aloft.

“Yes, but... oh, I'll tell you later,” she says, sliding her hands down his back to grab his rear as she tilts her chin up to kiss him.

 

xXx

 

Crane rounds the corner, heading to his office after his first class Monday morning, making a mental shopping list for the pies he needs to make for Thursday.

“Dr. Crane,” a low voice beckons him from a darkened corner.

Crane turns his head. “Yes?” He walks towards the voice. “Ah... Mr. Brooks, I believe?” The only surprise he feels at seeing Abbie’s young admirer is that it took Brooks this long to seek him out.

“Yeah,” Andy says, his voice clipped. “Look. I just want to tell you that if I ever hear or see anything that even _suggests_ you might be mistreating Lieutenant Mills in any way, you'll regret it.”

Crane's eyebrows rise. “Excuse me?”

Andy's stomach drops unpleasantly, but he holds his ground. “Lieutenant Mills. Abbie. I know the two of you are dating.”

“And, how is that any business of yours?”

“She's... she's special, all right? I-I'm not accusing you of anything, but I'm just putting it out there: If you hurt her, I'll hurt you.” His voice wavers at the end, but he keeps his eyes locked on Crane's, his chin raised.

Crane's jaw twitches once, then he clears his throat. “Come with me, young man,” he finally says, his tone declaring he is not to be disobeyed.

Andy follows Crane the short distance to his office.

“Sit,” Crane orders in a clipped voice. Andy sits, and Crane closes the door. He walks around his desk, sets his books down, glances at his phone, folds his hands in front of him on his desk, then looks Andy Brooks squarely in the eyes. “Mr. Brooks, are you truly that stupid?” Crane asks, his tone calm and soft, but firm.

Andy scowls furiously. “I’m not stupid. I’ll have you know I get very good grades. I’m not some dumb jock!”

“Well, then _act_ like it. _Think_ , man. You are at this university on scholarship, are you not?” Brooks nods. “Now, Lieutenant Mills and I are very much aware that you have been following her around town. We know you know where she lives, because we’ve seen your car outside on more than one occasion. I would also wager you've learned the location of my apartment as well. Furthermore, you have just verbally threatened me, which is quite a large mistake considering Miss Mills is your faculty advisor, and, were I to report this, do you know who would receive an official copy of the complaint?”

“Lieutenant Mills,” Brooks mutters.

“I need not inform you that such a report would cost you your scholarship,” Crane pauses a moment, then continues. “In fact, _any_ student, scholarship or no, who has behaved as you have, would _most very likely_ be dismissed.”

Brooks looks down, nodding. He’s still mad, but now it’s mostly because he feels really stupid.

“Not only that, but for a young man who is hoping for a career in law enforcement, your actions are most unwise.”

Andy nods, his eyes downcast, contrite.

Crane lets him stew another ten seconds, then speaks. “However, I am willing to turn a blind eye on two conditions.”

Andy looks up. “You are?”

“Yes,” Crane answers. “First, you must _earnestly_ apologize to Lieutenant Mills for following her, and promise to leave her alone. She is your _professor,_ not a co-ed you should be chasing.”

“Okay,” he glumly agrees.

“Second, transfer yourself to a different faculty advisor. Reyes or Irving.” He pauses, slightly raising his eyebrow. “Definitely Irving,” he decides.

Andy slumps, but says nothing. _Irving is preferably to Reyes, I guess._ _He misses nothing, but_ she’s _a major hard-_ _ass._ “Yes, sir,” he finally answers.

“Good,” Crane declares. “I do not believe I need to inform you that if either Lieutenant Mills or I suspects you've returned to your old ways, I will not hesitate to file a complaint.”

“No, sir,” Andy answers. He swallows hard.

“Very well. You may go,” Crane says, nodding once.

Brooks hesitates. “So... _you_ don’t need an apology?” he asks, puzzled.

Crane regards the young man a moment. _How little you know of love._ “If you earn Lieutenant Mills' forgiveness, then you will also have mine.”

Andy contritely nods and stands.

“Mr. Brooks. One more thing, if you please,” Crane calls.

Andy pauses. “Yeah?”

“Unwanted advances of _any_ kind are never a good idea, regardless of age or position. Please take more care with your personal relationships in the future.”

Andy nods, then pauses another moment. “For what it’s worth… I know I shouldn’t have been following her around. I just couldn’t figure out how to stop.”

“That is reassuring to hear, thank you,” Crane says, pleased to learn the young football player has not yet lost all his sense.

“I’ll apologize to Lieutenant Mills this afternoon when I see her,” he says. “For class,” he hastily adds. “I have class with her this afternoon!”

Crane smiles. “Very good. I will await the report from Lieutenant Mills,” he says.

Andy nods. “Yeah. Um, thanks, Dr. Crane. For going easy on me. And, for helping me instead of punishing me. I’m… I’m glad she’s happy with you. Really.”

“You are very welcome, Andrew. Do not make yourself late for your next class because you are trying to get into my good graces,” Crane replies, a slight smile on his face.

Andy pauses a moment. _Is he joking with me? He is._ He returns Crane’s smile with an apologetic one of his own, then leaves.

Crane picks up his phone and sends Abbie a text.

_I just had a vis_ _it from your number one fan._

His phone rings thirty seconds later. He turns away from his computer keyboard where he was documenting the morning's events in a Word file. Just in case.

“What did he do?” Abbie asks before Crane can even say “Hello”.

 

xXx

 

“Frank, if I may have a word?” Crane asks. Thanksgiving dinner has been consumed (including Crane's pumpkin, apple, and pecan pies), and they are all sitting around Abbie's living room, watching football and feeling more stuffed than the turkey they had eaten. Crane cornered Frank Irving in the kitchen at halftime while they were both retrieving fresh drinks.

“Is this about Brooks again?” Frank asks, handing Crane a bottle.

“Is it that obvious?” Crane replies, taking the beer. “Thank you.”

After Crane spoke with Abbie on Monday, he looked up Frank Irving's office number and placed another call. Luckily, the Chair of the Criminal Science Department was in. Crane gave Irving a brief summary of the morning's events and informed him that the football player _should_ be approaching him about changing his advisor. Frank had assured him he'd make certain Brooks saw him before the end of the day.

“Yeah,” Frank answers, opening his beer. “I _will_ be speaking with him more about this on Monday,” he adds, his tone suggesting that while Andy hasn't asked to meet with him again, a meeting will be happening nevertheless.

“That is good to hear. I am hoping this is merely a case of an unrequited crush having gone unchecked for too long,” Crane says. He takes a drink and leans against the counter.

“You're more optimistic than I am,” Frank replies. “I was afraid the kid had an obsession that was going to lead to dangerous behavior. But, it seems like he's at least willing to turn it around.”

“Yes, which brings me to my point,” Crane says.

“You want me to keep a close eye on him.”

“Do you always answer questions before they are asked?” Crane asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Frank laughs. “It's a bad habit, I know. Drives Cynthia crazy. Macey's not too fond of it either. But, yes, I will _continue_ to keep an eye on Brooks. I'm going to recommend he talk to one of the counselors at the wellness center, too.”

“Thank you.”

“I've been watching him since last semester,” Frank adds. “I had hoped he had found a girlfriend or had some kind of... epiphany over the summer, but that didn't seem to happen.”

“I appreciate your vigilance, Frank,” Crane says, his eyes giving away how concerned he actually is about Abbie's safety.

“Well, I'm not doing it just for you,” Frank says, sitting at the small table. He motions for Crane to join him, and he does. “Did she tell you about August Corbin?”

Crane nods. “Her former mentor and partner, yes.”

“He and I went way back. We were partners before I retired to my ivory tower,” he says, chuckling.

“Why did you retire?” Crane asks.

“Macey,” he simply answers. “Priorities shifted.”

“Understood.”

“I was still close with Corbin. I'd bring him in as a guest lecturer from time to time. He was a large, imposing man – taller and broader than you – but a softie on the inside. Loved helping people, mentoring troubled youths.”

“Like Abbie and Jenny,” Crane supplies.

“Whoa, she told you everything, huh?” Frank asks, impressed. At Crane's pensive nod, the former police captain pauses a moment, pleased the usually reticent Abbie is opening up to Crane. “Good for her,” he softly adds, raising his bottle in a small toast. He drinks, then sets his bottle down. “But, yes, like Abbie and Jenny. Anyway, I'll spare you the long, painful details, but it comes down to this: August Corbin was shot in that drug bust. However, he didn't die on the scene. He died in the hospital a short time later, but not before asking me to look after his girls.”

“Abbie and Jenny.”

Frank nods. “I made a deathbed promise, man, and that is not something to be taken lightly.”

“Of course,” Crane says, his face serious. “Do they know?”

Frank laughs, knowing exactly why Crane is asking and why Abbie didn't tell him this story. _She wouldn't think it would be her place to tell._ “Yes, our fiercely independent Mills sisters know. They make dismissive remarks whenever the topic happens to come up, but deep down, they appreciate it.”

“Of course, they do. It's indisputable proof Sheriff Corbin loved them.”

“Exactly,” Frank agrees.

“Are you two gossiping in here like a couple of old grannies?” Abbie asks, walking into the kitchen. She is limping a bit.

“Darling, you did too much today,” Crane says, reaching his hand out to her across the small kitchen. She takes it and moves closer, settling on his lap.

“That thing still bothering you?” Frank asks, furrowing his brow.

Her eyes flit to Crane for just a moment before answering, “I was just on it a little too much to—”

“Abbie,” Crane softly says, touching her cheek. “You do not need to be brave for me, remember?” he softly asks, referring to a recent conversation they had about her tendency to downplay her pain. Too accustomed to having to take care of herself, hiding her discomfort has become a habit. When pressed, she told him she's not used to someone other than Jenny worrying about her well-being, and eventually admitted she didn't want to trouble him with her “stupid knee problems”. He gently informed her that her problems are not a burden to him and reminded her of her own words: _Part of being in a relationship is helping each other through the bad, because that's what makes the good even better._ He cupped her sweet face gently in his large hands and admitted he worries more _no_ _t_ knowing. She smiled, blinking back tears, and promised him she'd try to be more forthcoming when she is in pain or needs assistance.

“Yes, it's still bothering me. I'll call tomorrow and make an appointment, all right?” she sighs.

“Good,” Frank answers.

“Thank you,” Crane adds, kissing her cheek.

“So, what are you doing in here anyway? You went to get fresh beers and never came back,” Abbie asks, returning to her original topic.

“We were discussing young Master Brooks,” Crane answers.

“Oh. That,” Abbie says, tired of the subject. “Hopefully, that chapter is done.”

“God willing,” Frank agrees.

“Hey, is the party in here now?” Jenny enters, striding to the fridge for a beer. “Halftime's over.”

“We're coming back out in a second,” Abbie says, making no move to leave Crane's lap. In fact, she leans her head against his, her fingers toying with his hair.

“Right,” Jenny says. “You're just waiting for Frank to leave so you can make out in the kitchen.”

“What makes you think we haven't already christened this room?” Crane saucily replies, arching an eyebrow at Jenny.

Abbie starts laughing, burying her face in his neck. Frank rolls his eyes and takes a long drink of his beer.

“Ooo, freaky,” Jenny answers, unflustered. “Wouldn't have thought you had it in you, British Guy.” She holds her bottle aloft towards Crane. He lifts his, clinks it against hers, and they both drink.

“On that note, I think I'll go back to the living room where my family and the game are waiting,” Frank says, standing. “Behave yourselves,” he adds, winking at them.

“You're not the boss of me!” Jenny calls after him, grinning broadly. Frank disappears, but his laughter drifts back into the room.


	7. Chapter 7

There is a soft knock. “Hey,” Abbie calls, poking her head inside the door to Crane’s apartment before walking fully inside. Crane had buzzed her in a few moments before and was waiting expectantly.

“Abbie!” he exclaims, immediately lifting her off her feet and spinning her around once before very gently setting her down.

“Oh! What has gotten into you?” she asks, giggling as he exuberantly kisses her.

“I have exciting news,” he says.

“Apparently so,” she assesses, looking up at him. “You're practically vibrating.”

He takes her coat and waits while she removes her boots and sets them in the shallow tray inside his door, the snow melting into dirty water and collecting in the bottom.

They are a week into the semester break, and winter has fully descended upon Sleepy Hollow, blanketing it in snow.

He hands her the cup of tea he had ready, and they move to the couch.

“So, what's your news?” Abbie asks.

“No, no, please. Tell me about your appointment first,” he says, remembering she has just come from seeing the orthopedic surgeon about her knee.

She looks at him, practically jumping out of his skin like a child on Christmas morning, and shakes her head. “I think you'd better go first,” she says, chuckling. “You look like you're going to pop.”

“No, yours is more important,” he presses.

“Ichabod, just tell me,” she insists.

“You're sure?” he asks. She nods, and he grabs a sheet of paper from the coffee table and thrusts it at her.

Furrowing her brows, Abbie looks at the page. _Letterhead from_ _Merton College, Oxford._ She quickly scans the letter and her heart drops into the pit of her stomach for a moment before rallying and returning to her chest, beating a bit faster than normal. “They want you to interview for a position,” she softly says, as though she needs to speak the words aloud to confirm the reality of it. She looks up at his expectant, excited face. “This is your dream job, Ichabod.” She knows this. They’ve talked idly about it; never expecting anything like this would ever come to fruition. He would love to teach at Oxford. She would love to be in the FBI. _At least, one of us has a chance to realize one’s dream._

“I know; I'm simply flabbergasted!” he exclaims. “I... I wasn't aware they knew I existed,” he says. “I mean, yes, I did study there, but...”

Swallowing her selfish feelings, she hugs him. “That's really great,” she says, her lips brushing his ear. “I'm so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he answers, kissing her soundly. “I haven't responded yet, I...” his voice trails off, the words he wants to say becoming mired in a sea of doubt.

“Why not?” she asks. “You need to call them as soon as possible,” she presses. “Christmas is next week.”

“Well, for one thing, they are six hours ahead, so it is after ten p.m.,” he starts, taking her hands in his, and rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. “And, secondly, I should like to give this some thought before jumping.”

Abbie can't help the sharp sting of disappointment that lances through her when he doesn't list her as a reason for his hesitation. _He's probably just excited and not thinking clearly. Don't be That Girl. Be supportive._ “But... this is Oxford _,_ ” she says. “ _Oxford_ wants you, Ichabod.”

“True,” he agrees. “I... I am still waiting for the reality of it to sink in.” He squeezes her hands, lifts them to his lips, and kisses them. “Now. What did the doctor say about your knee?”

Abbie extracts her hands to take a drink of her tea, buying a moment of time as she gathers her thoughts. “He's not sure,” she says. “They took some x-rays and are going to get back to me about their findings. I may have to go back, but I don’t know yet. They're supposed to call me tomorrow.”

“Do let me know what they say,” Crane says, now softly stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs.

“I will,” she says, lifting his hands in hers and kissing them. “What smells good?”

“Apart from me?” he cheekily asks, grinning. She playfully shoves him. “I have lasagna in the oven. I thought you might be hungry.”

She smiles. “I am,” she answers. “Please tell me you have good bread,” she adds, looking up at him as he stands. She starts to stand as well, and he places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I do, and you stay put,” he says, bending to kiss her upturned face. “Do you need anything? Tylenol, ibuprofen...?”

“I'm good, thanks,” she answers, settling back against his comfortable couch with her tea. He caresses her cheek once, then strides to the kitchen to finish making dinner.

Abbie sits, contemplating her tea, staring down into the half-empty cup, gently swirling the contents, watching the stray leaves in the bottom float around and settle. _Just how I like it. Extra sweet, even though Ichabod calls it heresy. He takes his with just a splash of milk which I think is weird._ She smiles ruefully, wondering if she'd ever get him to try sweet tea. _I'll have to take him down Sout_ _h_ _sometime._

She looks over at the coffee table intending to reach for the TV remote, but her eyes fall on the letter from Oxford.

_Or, perhaps not._

She sets her cup on the saucer – always a saucer, never a coaster, not for tea – and picks up the letter, reading it again.

_He might actually leave. And, he didn't even ask..._

_You've only been dating three months. Why would he ask you to go with him?_

_You're also overreacting. It's not a job offer. It's an opportunity to interview for a position. He'd be up against God only knows how many other candidates._

_He's the best though. They'd be stupid not to hire him. Not only is he brilliant, he's got name recognition._ Abbie sets the letter aside, letting her head drop back against the cushions. She closes her eyes. _He went there. His father went there and sends donations regularly._

_He may as well start packing._

Crane pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Will you be staying over?” he asks.

“I don't know,” Abbie truthfully answers, lifting her head. “I came straight from the doctor and don't have anything along.” She has a toothbrush and some very basic hair products and tools here, and had been meaning to bring over a few more items to keep at his place, like some pajamas, a head scarf, and some lotion that smells good (his is basic and unscented). She hadn’t yet gotten around to it.

“Oh,” he answers, valiantly trying not to look too disappointed.

Abbie bends. “I could... run home and come back,” she suggests.

“Only if you wish to do so, my dear. Do not let my petulance over the prospect of your absence influence your decision,” he says, stepping into the living room, wiping his large hands on a towel.

“You were hardly being petulant, Ichabod,” she says. “I don't live that far away and the weather is quiet, so it's not that big a deal.” _It would be nice if he would just ask me to stay if that’s what he really wants._

“Whatever you decide is fine with me. Honest,” he reiterates, bending to kiss her. He straightens and holds out his hand. “Dinner is ready.”

She takes his hand and stands. “I would actually love a hot bath after dinner,” she sighs.

“I think I could arrange for one to be waiting for you upon your return,” he says. “Should you decide to return, that is.”

Abbie manages a smile. “That would be nice,” she says, following him to the kitchen.

 

xXx

 

“Hey, how's the knee?” Jenny asks.

Abbie started dialing her sister in the elevator on her way out of Crane's apartment. He suggested she take the time to run home while he cleaned up dinner and asked that she let him know when she was on her way back so he could start her bath water.

“Don't know yet. Will find out tomorrow probably. But, that's not important right now,” Abbie says.

“What's wrong?”

“Ichabod might be going back to England,” Abbie answers, willing her voice to be steady. _Do not fall apart. You haven't been dating him long enough to be devastated over this._

“What?? Why? Is he being deported?” Jenny asks, shocked.

“He got a letter from Oxford University. They want him to interview for a position that'll be open next fall,” Abbie explains. She goes on to tell her sister the details, including how excited he was over the prospect.

“Take his Christmas present back,” Jenny says. Abbie can hear her scowling.

“Not helping,” Abbie says.

“Sorry. Look, you said it was just an _interview,_ right?” Jenny asks.

“Yes.”

“So, no guarantee he's leaving. Also, how long have you been dating? Two months? Three?”

“Three.”

“And, you're expecting him to give up what you say is his dream job to stay here?”

“No! I’m not expecting that at all! I just... I guess it would have been nice to know I was at least in the overall equation somewhere, you know?”

“ _Would_ you go with him if he asked you?”

Abbie stares into the darkness ahead of her. The traffic light turns green, but she doesn't move. Behind her, a car honks. She startles and hits the accelerator. “I don't know,” she answers.

“Then, why are you freaking out?”

“I'm not freaking out!” Abbie yells. “Okay, maybe I'm freaking out a little bit.” She pulls into her parking lot. “Why _am_ I freaking out?”

“Because you're stuck on this guy, and I don't blame you. He's great,” Jenny answers.

“Again, not helping.”

“Look. Let's try to be logical, shall we?” Abbie snorts a laugh, and Jenny joins her. “Yeah, I know, role reversal, right? Just… let me put my counselor hat on with you for a minute.”

“Hit me with your logic, but make it quick if you can,” Abbie says. “I'm home to grab some stuff, and then I need to go back over to his, so I'd like to have my brain in some kind of order before I get back there.”

“You're staying over?” Jenny asks, slightly incredulous.

“ _Jenny_. Focus.”

“Right. Logic. Maybe... maybe he's waiting until he knows for sure. Like, he doesn't want to ask you and get you all worked up about going, only to learn later he hasn’t gotten the job.”

“That's… that's a pretty good point, but… is it so wrong to want to be wanted? Regardless of the outcome?” Abbie says.

“Then, why don’t you just _ask_ him? Ask him how he thinks this change would affect your relationship? You want to be considered, so make him consider you,” Jenny bluntly says.

“It’s not that easy. I don’t want to _make_ Ichabod do anything. I would like it to be _his_ choice to ask,” Abbie protests.

“It _is_ that easy, Abs. You’re only making it difficult because you don’t want to deal,” Jenny counters.

Abbie says nothing.

“I know what I’m talking about, you know. I'm not just another pretty face,” Jenny reminds her. “I are a professional.”

Abbie laughs despite herself, throwing things into a bag. “I know,” she sighs.

“Also, think about this,” Jenny continues, “it’s possible he feels he can't ask you to uproot your life just for him. It _has_ only been three months.”

 

xXx

 

“Bram, Abbie and I have only been together three months,” Crane says, putting away the last of the dishes from dinner. “It... it would be asking too much.”

“She'd do it, you know,” Abraham says. “I see the way she looks at you. She's as hung up on you as you are on her.”

Crane sighs. “That isn't the point.”

“What is the point exactly?”

“The point is...” Crane starts, falters, then starts again. “The point is I'd be tearing her away from everything and everyone she has here.”

“No, you'd be _asking_ her to leave. It would be her choice whether to stay or go.”

Ichabod is silent, somewhat stunned as he ponders his friend’s words. _Perhaps that is what concerns me the most. What if she chooses to stay?_

“You're not kidnapping the woman,” Bram says. “Are you?”

“No!” Crane exclaims, snapping out of his worry. He moves into the living room to stand at the window. “I would never!”

“Just giving you shit. Damn, man, you have no sense of humor tonight.”

“This is no time for levity,” Crane retorts. “I need advice, not japes.”

“Then, why are you calling me?” Bram asks.

“Because Katrina has been a positive influence on you and I had hoped to benefit from your newfound adult behavior.”

“Didn’t you just say ‘this is no time for levity'?” Bram replies, imitating Crane's accent.

“I am being serious,” Crane says. Katrina finally consented to go out with Abraham just before Thanksgiving. They’ve been seeing one another regularly since then, and Bram’s former foolish ways have almost completely disappeared with the help of Crane, Abbie, and now, Katrina. “Bram, I don't have a lot of time. She's coming back soon.”

“Okay, okay. Just... be cool. You don't even know you're going to get the job for sure, right?”

“Right.” Crane stares out the window. _Is that her car? No, that’s a minivan. Besides, she said she’d call._

“I mean, they'd be stupid not to hire you, but that's not the point right now. So, go to the interview, and if it goes well, ask her after. If you tank, then no worries, right?”

“I suppose that does make some sense,” Crane agrees.

Bram sighs on the other end. “Seriously though, I don’t see the harm in simply asking her a ‘what if’ question, you know? You guys talk about all kinds of stuff, so why not this?

 _Especially this._ “Well, I suppose I could find a way to broach the topic,” he allows. His phone beeps and he pulls it away from his face, looking at the screen. “Abbie's calling.”

“'Bye,” Bram says.

“Hello,” Crane greets Abbie.

“I'm on my way back,” she replies.

“I will start your bath water,” he says. “Nice and hot, the way you like it.”

 

xXx

 

After Abbie emerges from the bathroom in cozy pajamas and hair already wrapped, Crane quietly tells her he plans to call Oxford the next morning to schedule the interview. Abbie nods and smiles, trying to remain supportive, but he notices the sadness in her eyes.

“Abbie, I… I don’t feel it is my place to ask you to leave your home for me,” he softly says, attempting to address the elephant in the room.

Abbie’s eyes widen a bit. “ _Are_ you asking?” she inquires, her voice nearly a whisper.

Crane stills, trying to find the best way to continue, to let her know that he indeed would like nothing better.

Abbie misinterprets his hesitation and blinks back her disillusionment and hurt. She takes a deep breath and steadies her voice. “Isn’t that… kind of putting the cart before the horse?” she asks, trying to push through her dismay and remember Jenny’s words. “I mean… you don’t even know if you’re going to get the job.”

“Yes, but… if I do…”

She puts her hand over his and gently squeezes. “Go to the interview first,” she says. “We… we can’t get all hung up on the ‘what ifs’ right now.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but the only thing in his mind is _come with me,_ and he knows he shouldn’t ask that now, no matter how very much as he wants to do so.

Later, spooned behind Abbie in bed, Crane tries to be still, not wishing to disturb her rest. But, his mind is whirring. _I do hope Abbie doesn't think I'm setting her aside for this opportunity. I only wish I knew how to convey that to her without sounding like I'm expecting her to follow me to London._

_I would love it if she would – if I get the job – but I cannot expect her to drop everything for me._

_If it weren't for her, I'd have absolutely no hesitation in accepting the job offer should it com_ _e_ _._ He inhales slowly and deeply, drawing her scent into his nostrils, letting the light citrus aroma of her favorite lotion envelop him. It is as familiar as his own name and as enticing as the rest of her.

_If it weren't for her, I'd have no reason to stay here._

_If it weren't for her, I'd still be an odd, lonely man with nothing to look forward to apart from finding inaccuracies on the History Channel and attending the occasional poker night with a bunch of self-important men._

_What a drab existence I was leading before she fell into my life._

_I only hope she can be patient with me until I know more about this job._

_I should not dare to hope that I will be so lucky as to gain everything I wish, and yet... I cannot_ help _hoping._

She feels so soft and warm in his arms. They are together more nights than they are apart these days, and when they are apart, his arms feel empty.

Curled in front of him, Abbie is also lost in thought. Jenny’s advice floats back into Abbie’s head: _“_ _Just wait and see.”_

 _It’s only next week._ _The letter said they were planning to hold interviews on the 22_ _nd_ _. That means h_ _e’ll probably be leaving the 21_ _st_ _. That’s Monday. Interview is Tuesday, then home Wednesday. I’ll know by Christmas._

_Merry flipping Christmas._

_Then, what? Then, we wait and see if he gets the offer._ _If he does,_ then _what? I’m not sure I can expect him to ask me to go with him. His hesitation tonight showed me that._ Abbie squeezes her eyes tightly, willing her breath to stay even. _I’m_ not _going to ask him to not accept the offer and stay here, because that wouldn’t be fair._

 _Do I end things, knowing they’ll go nowhere? Do we enjoy the time we have together, knowing it’s only temporary and, oh, God, will just make things hurt_ more _when he has to go?_

She can hear Crane’s even breathing behind her, but is not sure if he’s sleeping or playing possum like she is. _Is he thinking about the job? About me?_

_What was that other thing Jenny said? “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.” Not very optimistic, but it might be the safest option._

Abbie hears him sigh, and when his arm tightens around her, holding her closer than usual, she thinks maybe, just maybe, he is more conflicted about this job offer than he’s letting on.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning of Monday, December 21, comes around faster than the couple anticipated. Abbie leaves Crane's apartment that morning, kissing him goodbye and promising to be back after lunch to spend some time with him before the Oxford-arranged car service comes to retrieve him at three.

Half an hour after she leaves, Crane's phone rings. He sets the suitcase he's just pulled out of a closet on his bed, then goes to answer it.

His brow furrows at the number which is unfamiliar, but clearly from England.

“Hello?” he asks, opening a dresser drawer.

“Dr. Crane?”

“This is he,” Crane replies as his brain puts together the pieces that recognize the voice.

“Yes, good morning. This is Dr. Hayward. Sorry about the last minute notice, but we’re going to have to postpone your interview.”

Crane drops the pairs of boxer briefs in his hand back into the drawer. “Oh… all right. Is there a problem?” he asks.

“Nothing to do with you at all, sir. Dr. Oliver’s wife has just gone to hospital to have her baby unexpectedly early. Would you be able to come a week from today? We’ll take care of the travel matters, of course.”

Crane checks his calendar. “Yes, that’s fine, thank you. And, congratulations to Dr. Oliver,” he says, sitting heavily on his bed, the excitement of travel plus the nerves that had been building over the interview draining out of him.

“Thank you for understanding, Dr. Crane. Have a good day,” Dr. Hayward says.

“Yes, the same to you, sir,” Crane answers. The call disconnects and he stares at his phone. After a moment, he rings his mother to tell her he’ll be there a week later. Then, he calls Abbie. There is no answer, so he leaves her a voicemail. “Good morning, Abbie, this is Ichabod. I have just received word that my trip to Oxford has been postponed one week. Apparently, there is an infant who has decided to be born ahead of schedule and disrupt everyone’s plans,” he says, chuckling. “In any case, I am wondering if you are free for dinner this evening. I shall await your return call with as much patience as I can muster, my dear.”

He closes the suitcase and places it in the corner of his room since he'll need it next week. As he changes the dates of the trip in his phone, he thinks of something else to tell Abbie. He is just preparing to leave another voice mail, when the call connects.

“Hey, Ich,” a voice answers. It’s a familiar voice, but not Abbie’s.

“Miss Jenny?” he asks. “May I ask why you are answering Abbie’s phone?”

“Because, she gave it to me to hold while she’s in having her MRI done,” Jenny says. “I just decided to answer it this time, since you called, like, fifteen minutes ago, in case it was something important.”

“MRI?” Ichabod asks, confused.

“On her knee. Didn't she tell you?”

“Um, no, she did not. I knew she needed to return to the doctor, but... she said you were meant to do some Christmas shopping today.” _She mentioned something about needing to schedule a follow up appointment, but said nothing about an MRI._

“Whoa, slow down there, dude,” Jenny says. “First, we _are_ going Christmas shopping. After she finishes here.”

“But, why does she need this test?”

Jenny sighs, having a pretty good idea why her sister neglected to tell him the details. “She's having an MRI today because they think the fake knee might be cracked.”

“Oh, dear...” he says. _Why did she not tell me? I would have been happy to accompany her. I would have had plenty of time before I had to go to the airport._

“You still there?” Jenny asks. He's gone quiet.

“Yes,” he answers. “If you would be so kind as to let her know I called, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Sure. Um, Ichabod?”

“Yes?”

“I don't know exactly what's going on with the two of you right now, but she likes you a lot.”

“I like her a lot as well,” he softly replies. A tiny light switches on inside his head and he realizes he probably _does_ know why she didn't tell him about her MRI.

“Good,” she tells him. “Remember that.”

 

xXx

 

Abbie waits until after she's dropped Jenny off to call him. Jenny insisted they postpone their planned shopping trip and lunch “Until after you and British Guy get your issues sorted out.”

“Hi,” she nervously says when he answers.

“Hello, Abbie. How are you?” Crane softly greets. He's spent the last hour thinking about her. About them. Once his confusion subsided, he realized he wasn't angry with her. _I didn't give her any reason to believe I wouldn't leave, given the opportunity._

“I'm okay,” she answers. She sighs and continues. “Um... yeah. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the MRI,” she says.

“I'm sorry I gave you reason to feel you couldn't tell me about it,” he replies.

“Oh,” Abbie softly exclaims, surprised. She wasn't expecting an apology from him. “Um, thank you.”

He is silent a moment. “Will you come over?” he asks. “I would very much like to see you.”

She smiles involuntarily, the knot in her stomach relaxing. “I'm on my way,” she answers, then notices she was already driving towards his place instead of hers.

“Thank you.”

“See you in five.”

“I'll be waiting.”

Four minutes later, she presses his buzzer, and appears at his door shortly after that. She is about to apologize again, but before she can get the words out, he kisses her. “Are you all right? When will you know the results?” he asks, his blue eyes searching hers as his hands gently frame her face.

“It's not cracked,” she says, remembering what Jenny had relayed to her. He exhales, relieved, and she continues. “They saw a line on the x-ray that turned out to be nothing. I tore a couple of tendons and there's an infection in there, so they gave me antibiotics.”

“An infection?” Crane replies, frowning in concern. “Oh, dear…”

Abbie quickly reassures him. “If you think about it, this is actually good news. Because, if it _was_ cracked, I'd have to have surgery again. Meds and coddling are definitely preferable,” she explains, touched at his immediate concern. She reaches up and caresses his cheek, just looking up at him for a moment. “Can we sit?”

“Of course, of course, forgive me, Abbie. Please, come...” he says, leading her to the couch. “Do you need anything? Are you supposed to elevate it? Perhaps a cushion? Ice?”

She smiles at his attentiveness, but her heart feels tight with uncertainty and guilt. “I'm supposed to put it up, thanks,” she says, sitting and removing her boots. “I have another appointment in three weeks. I'm supposed to keep using the cane at least until then,” she adds, swinging both legs up across the sofa cushions.

Crane takes her boots and places them by the door. He returns and sits just past her feet. “Is this all right?” he asks.

“It's fine,” she answers. “Look, Ichabod, I... I'm really sorry I didn't tell you about the test,” she says, deciding it's time to get to the Issue At Hand.

He nods once. “May I ask why? I... well, recent developments with Oxford aside, I thought things were going very well between us.”

She sighs heavily and looks down at her hands clasped in her lap, saying nothing for a few long moments. “They are, but that's just the thing. Oxford. You're probably _leaving_ ,” she simply says. “I... I guess I figured it would be easier to start... distancing myself...”

“Oh, Abbie,” he says, “even if they offer me the job, I... I don't know for certain that I would accept.”

She looks up at him. “This is your dream job, Ichabod. Why would you not go?”

His eyes lock onto hers. “I can think of one very good reason,” he very softly says.

She blinks and exhales, not realizing she had been holding her breath. “No.” She shakes her head. “You can't stay just for me. I mean, I... I _want_ you to stay, but... I could never ask that of you. I _would_ never. It's not my place, and I would always know that you gave up your dream for me.” He opens his mouth to respond, but closes it again. She looks at him, watching him intently, and realizes his face is telling her things his words aren’t. “Ichabod,” she says, reaching out for his hand, “you need to stop being so... polite. I can’t read your mind. Sometimes, I can’t even read your expressions. It doesn't matter if your opinion is different from mine or if you think I'm not going to like what you are going to say. Please... tell me what is on your mind. _Alway_ _s_ tell me.”

He moves from the couch, sitting on the coffee table, near her face. “Abbie, I... my feelings for you are...” he breaks off, not sure if he should say the words. _Is it too soon? Will I frighten her away?_

“Ichabod?” she prompts, heart pounding.

“Strong,” he finishes. “I have very strong feelings for you. However, I do not feel I can ask you to come with me any more than you feel you can ask me to stay,” he says.

“Why not?” she asks. _I don't care if we are in Sleepy Hollow or Oxford, as long as we are together._

“I am a greedy man, it seems. I would very much like this position, but the thought of being parted from you...” Abbie feels inexplicable tears forming in her eyes, and she attempts to blink them away. “Will you come with me, Abbie? At least to the interview next week?” he carefully asks. “I know it is asking more than I should and I realize we have not been together very long, so I understand if you say no...”

Abbie gently presses her fingers to his lips. “What do _you_ want, Ichabod?” she softly asks, her heart pounding as she stares back at him, patiently waiting for his answer.

He reaches up and takes her hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth across her skin, pondering her small hand in his for a moment.

She bites her lip, physically holding back her impulse to _not wait_. To throw caution to the wind, immediately say “yes”, and just follow this man across the ocean, but she needs more. She needs to know with complete certainty. Needs to know that he feels the same as she. _I don’t want him to ask me just because he senses it is what I want._

He squeezes her hand, then drops to his knees beside the couch, moving closer. He leans forward and kisses her, lingering over her lips, savoring their flavor and feel. “I love you, Abbie,” he quietly says, his lips hovering near hers, eyes closed. He kisses her once more, then leans back enough to look into her eyes. “I love you more than I can possibly express. Please come with me.”

“I love you, too, Ichabod,” Abbie whispers, kissing him softly. “I'll come with you,” she answers, closing her eyes as he sags against her, relieved, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. Her hand moves up to his head, her fingers threading through his hair.

Crane squeezes her tightly, then lifts his head and kisses her. “Weren't you going shopping with Jenny?” he asks, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“We're going tomorrow,” she says. “She said, 'Take me home, call Ichabod, and fix this misunderstanding before it becomes a full-blown mess.'”

He smiles. “I like your sister.”

“She likes you, too,” she replies. “Fortunately for you,” she adds, chuckling.

“So... does this mean I have you,” he kisses her, “all to myself,” he kisses her again, “for the rest of the day?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she answers, nodding, lifting her chin to kiss him some more. “Ichabod?” she asks, gently pulling away.

“Hmm?” he asks, slowly opening his eyes.

“How is this going to work? I mean, my coming with you. Didn't they book your flight?” she asks. He blinks, surprised. “Sorry. You know my brain works that way sometimes. Things just pop into my head.”

He moves from the floor, sitting on the couch again, this time lifting her knees so her legs are draped across his lap. “What time is it?” He looks at his phone. “So, it's nearly 4:30 there... I suppose I can call... hopefully that number is not his office number...” he mumbles, poking around on his phone.

“Who are you calling?” Abbie asks.

“Dr. Nigel Hayward. He called earlier to inform me that the interview had been postponed,” Crane replies. He is about to press _Send_ on the screen, but hesitates. “You have a passport?”

“I do,” she answers, nodding. “Jenny and I went to the Dominican Republic last year. One of those all-inclusive resorts. It was amazing,” she answers.

“Sounds like it,” he says, his eyes focusing into the distance for a moment at the thought of Abbie in a bikini on a tropical beach.

She laughs, sensing the reason for his distraction. “A lot of women went topless on the beach,” she goads. His eyes widen and he stares at her. “I didn't,” she laughs, unable to torture him that much. “Jenny did though. Once. After a few margaritas.” He's still staring. “Don't you have a call to make?”

“What? Oh. Yes,” he stammers, pressing the button.

A few moments later, the call connects. “Yes, hello. Dr. Hayward? Ichabod Crane calling. I do hope I'm not disturbing you, but I am wondering if you would be good enough to provide me the name of the travel agent or secretary who has booked my travel ticket,” Crane says. He leans forward and takes a notepad and pen from the coffee table. “Oh, no, there are no problems, I assure you. The date and times are fine. There has simply been a slight change in that I will be bringing a companion along with me, and I should like to ensure her travel ticket will coincide with my own when I book her flight.” He says, tapping his pen on the pad. “Yes, of course, I'll hold.” He glances sideways at Abbie, cocks an eyebrow at her, and she starts giggling again. “Yes,” he says, his eyes moving back towards the notepad. Crane writes down the name and number. “Thank you very much, sir. Yes, I look forward to meeting you as well,” he says. He tosses the pad and pen on the table. “I'll call her first thing tomorrow morning,” he declares. “But, now... what would you like to do, my love?”

Abbie smiles at the endearment. “I'm hungry. Lunch?”

“Well, I was anticipating leaving the country today, so my provisions are scant, but I believe I could manage some grilled cheese sandwiches,” he says, glancing towards his kitchen. “Or, we could order something. Or go out.”

“Grilled cheese is fine,” she says.

He leans over and kisses her. “Hmm. I propose we have a simple lunch, and then go out someplace nice for dinner?” he suggests.

“Sounds good,” she agrees. “Um, I have an overnight bag in my car,” she says, biting her lower lip. His eyebrow raises, and she adds, “I was going to stay over at Jenny's tonight actually. She knows that's not going to happen now.”

 

xXx

 

After a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and almost-stale potato chips, Abbie and Crane spend the rest of the day together.

Abbie sends Jenny a text telling her everything is good and she will tell her more about it tomorrow. She receives the reply _I've got tomorrow morning off now since I'm working this afternoon. Shopping and lunch._

Abbie and Crane spend most of the afternoon talking. He asks her more about her appointment and her knee, wishing to learn everything he can about it and a bit concerned about how the long plane ride will affect Abbie’s comfort. She reassures him again and asks him seemingly endless questions about London and Oxford as she grows more excited about the trip. He happily describes things he thinks she'll like and places he wishes to show her, reveling in the knowledge that she will be with him.

She helps him prepare for his interview, giving him questions they may ask, helping him fine-tune his resumé, credentials, and references.

The events of that morning seem to have built a new closeness between Crane and Abbie. There is a level of comfort present that wasn't there before. They were already quite comfortable with one another, but now that they have confessed their feelings, there is a warm security surrounding that comfort.

_She loves me._

_He loves me._

They choose Italian food for dinner, largely because there is a very good restaurant nearby and they did not feel like venturing out very far.

By the time they leave the restaurant, boxed leftovers in hand, snow is softly falling, and there is a fresh, white coating over the old, gritty, gray layer.

“Maybe we'll be snowed in,” Crane comments, opening Abbie's car door for her.

“Why do I have a feeling that's wishful thinking on your part?” she replies, smiling as he leans down and pecks her lips.

“Because, it is,” he simply answers. He closes the door and walks around to the passenger side. “I can think of far worse situations than being sequestered in your apartment – or my apartment, I'm not choosy – with you.”

“As long as it's cleared by next week, right?” she asks, pulling out of the lot. Out of habit, her eyes sweep across the parked cars, looking for a black Dodge Charger, before she remembers she no longer needs to think about that. Andy hasn't troubled them since Thanksgiving. _Plus, he's gone home for the holiday break_.

“Do you want to drive around and look at Christmas lights? I haven't been past the zoo this year,” she asks, waiting at a traffic light. “You _have_ seen the zoo Christmas display since moving here, right?”

She looks over at him and immediately knows that Christmas lights are the furthest thing from his mind. “I have,” he answers, his voice a soft rumble. “And, no, I do not wish to view the holiday displays this evening.”

Abbie reaches over and turns the heat down. She's suddenly gotten very warm all on her own. “Okay,” she whispers. The light turns green and she navigates her Jeep through the snow back to his apartment.

 

xXx

 

“Ichabod!” Abbie exclaims in surprise as Crane lifts her in his arms, carrying her towards his bedroom. “You didn't even lock the door!” she says, giggling, her head falling against his shoulder.

“Oh.” He abruptly turns and strides back to her door. He pauses just long enough for her to reach out and flip the deadbolt. “Thank you,” he murmurs just before he passionately kisses her, as though he can't wait a moment longer. Then, he retraces his steps to his room.

“Damn,” she exhales, her head falling against his shoulder. She tilts her face to kiss his neck, and is just about to reach for his shirt buttons when she softly lands on his bed.

He crawls over her, his eyes soft yet somehow intense, and he lowers himself to kiss her, holding himself over her, only touching her with his lips. She reaches up and cups his face in her small hands, her fingers running through his beard, trying to coax him closer, needing him closer.

Crane pulls away, leaning back. He catches Abbie's fingers in his hands, kisses them, then gently pulls her into a sitting position. He reaches down and pulls upward on the hem of the thick sweater she is wearing. She pulls it off and tosses it aside, revealing a camisole tank top beneath.

“There you are,” he whispers, leaning forward and kissing her shoulder. “That jumper is so bulky.” He speaks against her skin as he kisses a path across her collarbones to her other shoulder.

“Keeps me warm,” she replies, letting her head drop back.

“ _I'll_ keep you warm,” he says, nuzzling against her neck before placing a wet kiss on her pulse point. He guides her back down to lie against the pillows again, shifting his attention to the button on her jeans. He opens it and carefully pulls them down over her legs. “Why must you wear such form-fitting trousers?” he asks.

“You like them,” she says, smiling.

“I do, but you must admit, they are,” he pauses, pulling them off, “ruddy inconvenient at times like this.” He pulls the socks from her feet, tickles one, and almost gets kicked.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, laughing.

“Live and learn,” he replies, sitting on the bed. She sits up again, meeting him and helping with his buttons. He kisses her, leaving the buttons to her as his hands slide around her torso, shoving the back of her camisole up to feel her skin. One hand ventures down to gently squeeze her backside.

“I'm never going to... get this shirt off of you... if you... keep doing that,” she says, attempting to speak between kisses.

“Never going to _stop_ doing this,” he says, pulling her onto his lap and kissing her deeply. Her hands are trapped between them and her fingers curl into his chest, clutching his shirt. “However, you do have a point.” He releases her lips and exhales, his forehead against hers. “I love you, Abbie,” he breathes.

He spoke so softly, she wouldn't have heard him if she wasn't so close. “I love you, too, Ichabod,” she replies, kissing him.

Crane loosens his hold on her just enough to allow her to undo the last remaining button and push his shirt from his shoulders. He kisses her once more, then slides off of the bed to remove the rest of his clothes.

Abbie quickly pulls the covers back and moves to the edge of the bed as he returns to it, placing her hands on his thighs, then sliding them up to his hips. She gently pulls him towards her, looks up at him through her eyelashes, then leans forward and takes his length in her mouth.

“Oh...” he groans, his head falling back. “Abbie...” His hand reaches out, searching for some form of support as his knees weaken under her ministrations, nearly buckling. Finding nothing, his fingers flex uselessly at his sides as he tries to find the will to stay upright.

Abbie runs her tongue up and down his length a few times before taking him in as far as she can, one hand wrapped around the base of him while the other dances over his skin, caressing enticingly.

“Abbie,” Crane croaks, touching her shoulder.

She recognizes that tone of voice and slowly slides him out of her mouth and reclines back on the bed, resting on her elbows.

“You are simply divine,” he rumbles, leaning over her and reaching for her camisole, lifting the hem. He kisses her stomach, then retreats slightly so she can pull the snug garment off over her head.

His eyebrow rises when he sees she doesn't have a bra on.

“There's a bra built in,” she absently explains, moving back up by the pillows.

He nods once and turns his attention to her panties. “Ooo, my favorite pair,” he says, running his finger along the edge of the small garment, navy blue with small red and white stars.

Abbie chuckles as he slides them down over her legs, pausing to kiss her bad knee as he goes. Crane drops her panties to the floor and lies beside her, his broad hand settling on her hip for just a moment before moving up over her stomach to her breast. He kisses her, his tongue soft against hers, his thumb grazing her nipple. He releases her lips and moves lower, his hand sliding over her skin. His hand trails downward, between her legs, as he gently suckles her breast, kissing and sucking, flicking his tongue across the hardened peak in concert with the motion of his fingers.

“Ichabod...” Her voice is a breathy moan as she arches slightly, her hands in his hair. He moves over to attend her other breast, humming contentedly, his lips skimming her soft, fragrant skin. He slides two fingers into her, his thumb lightly rubbing circles over her sensitive nub. She moans again, her fingers tightening in his hair.

She blindly gropes with one hand, reaching down until her fingers brush his manhood. Her arms are too short to grasp him like she wants, so she pets and caresses him with her fingertips, drawing small groans from his throat.

He kisses his way back up to her lips, and she pushes up against him, moving so she is over him.

“Be careful of your knee, Love,” he murmurs when she moves to nibble his ear. He knows she won't do anything that would hurt her leg, and they've made love this way before, but the words are out before he can stop them.

“I'm good,” she answers, touched by his concern. “Thanks,” she adds, pausing to look down into his blue eyes. She caresses his cheek, then reaches down between them to take him in her hand. She strokes his shaft a few times, then sinks down over him, winding her legs around his as she leans forward to kiss him. (Shortly after their first time, Abbie told Crane she was on the pill and, since they are both clean and committed to one another, they decided to dispense with the use of condoms.)

“Abbie,” he groans, flexing his hips in time with her motions, his jaw slack, eyes closed. “Abbie,” he repeats, whispering her name like a prayer.

Abbie pushes up on her hands, leaning back just enough for Crane to reach up and cover one of her breasts with his hand, the other sliding down her back to cup her backside. He glides over her nipple with his palm, the slight roughness of it sending a thrill through her, and she gasps.

She moves a little faster, a little more urgently as the sensations build, gradually overtaking them, together. She removes his hand from her breast, threads her fingers through his, and holds it against the mattress, leaning on their joined hands. He looks up into her beautiful brown eyes, holding her gaze until she squeezes his hand tightly.

“Oh!” she cries out, then, “Mmm... oh!” Her purring is interrupted as he digs his fingers into her backside and thrusts forcefully up into her, finding his release with a low groan.

She relaxes over him, lying on his chest like a contented cat, her fingers still entwined with his. She sighs contentedly, turning her face to kiss his chest.

He glides his free hand over her skin, up to her shoulders, then down as far as he can reach and back up again. His hand moves up and down, slowly caressing. She shifts just enough to disengage them, and he kisses the top of her head.

They lie together in silence for several long minutes; warm, comfortable and happy.

Then, Crane hears Abbie sniffle and notices his chest feels wet. “Abbie?” he asks, lifting his head to look down at her. “Are you crying, my love?

“Maybe,” she answers, her voice soft and muffled by his chest.

He wraps his arm tightly around her, holding her as close as he can. “Will you tell me why?” He has his suspicions, but he's not going to make any assumptions.

She moves so she is beside him, still holding his hand on his chest. She takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “So many reasons,” she says. “I'm happy. Happier than I ever thought I would be. I mean, I was happy before, too. With you. Then, when that letter came... well, you know.”

He nods, remembering how she told him this afternoon how difficult it was for her to try to be positive for him because she didn't want to be selfish or detract from his excitement.

“I... I was scared,” she admits. Wiping her face, she sits up a bit, looking down at him. “I thought I was going to lose you, and it scared me more than I was expecting. I love you, Ichabod,” she says, touching his cheek. “I haven't exactly had a good track record for not losing loved ones, you know. I was afraid I was going to have to add you to the list.”

“Oh, Abbie, I'm so sorry... I...”

She places her fingers over his lips, and he automatically kisses them. “I know. I know _now_. It's just that I lost my parents, my mentor... I even lost Jenny for a while...” she pauses, shaking her head. “No matter how often it happens, it's not something you get used to, you know? You never grow accustomed to losing someone you love.”

He nods again, understanding. “Yes, of course,” he answers, wondering about what happened to Jenny, but knowing it is a conversation for another time.

She sighs again. “I don't want to rehash all the details again, because there's no need, but... all I could think was, 'No, not him, too. I can't lose him, too,' but I felt powerless to do anything about it.”

He lifts up and kisses her. “I'm sorry,” he whispers.

“You don't need to keep apologizing, Ichabod,” she says. “That's not why I'm telling you this, and I shoulder some of the blame, too.” He nods again, and she continues. “This has just been such a roller coaster.”

“Indeed, it has,” he agrees. “But, if we are to be riding this roller coaster, I am very glad we are doing so together.” He reaches up and wipes the tears from her cheeks, heedless of the wetness in his own eyes.

“Sorry,” she says, giving him a watery smile. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Crane gently pulls her down to lie beside him again, her head resting on his shoulder. Abbie automatically curls against him, her leg thrown over his. “Never apologize for your feelings, Love,” he says. “There are times when I feel a bit overwhelmed myself.”

She nods. “That’s a good word. ‘Overwhelmed’.” She pauses a moment. “I once thought I loved Luke. That’s my ex, the detective.”

“The ‘You look hot’ bloke?” he asks, cocking a judgmental eyebrow, clearly disapproving of Luke’s treatment of her.

“Ha,” she laughs. “Yes, that’s the one. I realized, later, that I didn’t. I loved the idea of him, but not actually him, you know?”

He nods, waiting for her to continue.

“I was overwhelmed by him, too. But, not in the same way. I’d look at the clock, wondering when I could escape back to my own place, or when he was going to leave. I liked the idea of having a boyfriend, but… only when _I_ wanted him around.” She stops, furrowing her brow. “This sounds weird.”

“No, not at all. I think I’m following your logic,” he reassures her, kissing her forehead. “Do go on.”

“With you, though,” she looks up at him, reaching up to stroke his beard, combing it with her fingertips, pushing it against the grain and then smoothing it back down, “I don’t get tired of your company. I _never_ want to go home, or wonder when you’re leaving, or want to go back to class after lunch. My feelings for you overwhelm me… and I _want_ them to. I crave it.”

He catches her fingers and kisses them, then ducks his head and kisses her lips, wrapping his arms around her again, pulling her closer so she is, once more, half-sprawled across him. “I love you so much, Abigail,” he murmurs, his lips still close enough to brush against hers when he speaks. “I never thought I would feel this way about anyone…”

“After what happened with Mary?” she guesses, kissing him.

“No. Ever. I never felt about her the way I feel about you,” he says, his eyes searching hers. “It is simply… amazing and wonderful, and sometimes I fear I’m going to wake up from some sort of strange, enchanted sleep and discover this has all been some horribly wonderful dream.”

Abbie laughs, gently dropping her forehead against his nose. “Now you’re just talking crazy,” she says, smiling fondly down at him.

He returns her smile and kisses her. “Perhaps,” he allows. “But, if this is a dream, I pray I never wake from it.”

“Me, too,” she agrees, closing her lips over his and kissing him deeply, pouring herself into him just as he is into her.

Moments later, they are lost in one another again.


	9. Chapter 9

Shortly after five a.m., Crane slowly, quietly slips out of bed, being very careful not to jostle Abbie awake. He shrugs on a bathrobe over his shorts and t-shirt (too cold to sleep in nothing, even cuddled together) and pads out of the room, gently closing the door behind him, his cell phone in his hand. He quickly uses the bathroom, retrieves the slip of paper from the coffee table, grabs his wallet from the table near the door, and goes into the kitchen.

They were up far too late last night, and he wants Abbie to sleep as long as she can before she meets her sister at nine.

He dials the number and hits _Send._ A pleasant female voice answers almost immediately.

“Yes, hello, my name is Ichabod Crane. Dr. Nigel Hayward has informed me you are the individual with whom I need to speak about travel plans for the History department at Merton College?” Crane says, rubbing his tired eyes. “Oh, he did? Very good... Yes, of course.” He waits while the woman pulls up his travel information. “Yes, a companion ticket,” he confirms. “Yes. No, that's fine... Excellent. Mills. First name Ab—no, I'm sorry, it's Grace.” He pauses, chuckling. “She goes by her middle name, sorry. I'm unaccustomed to using her first name and got flustered for a moment,” he admits. “Yes, it _is_ just after five a.m. here,” he says, chuckling. “Hmm? Oh. It's Abigail,” he says, answering her question. “Yes, there is one other item. I would also like to move the return flight until after the New Year.” He smiles, remembering how Abbie's face lit up when he broached the prospect of spending New Year’s Eve in London. _Mother will be pleased we're staying longer as well._ “The seats _are_ together for both flights? Very good. And, what is the total cost for those changes?” He lauds himself for not dropping his phone, reminds himself that Abbie is _very_ worth the cost and that he can afford the expense. He pulls his credit card out of his wallet. “Yes. MasterCard.”

That detail settled, he sends Dr. Hayward a text message thanking him for the information and confirming the time of Monday's interview, then heads back to bed and his warm Abbie. He removes his robe and slips in behind her, curling his long body around her compact one.

“Where were you?” she sleepily asks, snuggling backwards into him.

“You're supposed to be asleep,” he says, kissing her neck. “I was booking your flight.”

“Okay,” she says. “Same flight as yours?”

“Yes, seated right beside me,” he confirms, closing his eyes. “Returning on the second of January,” he adds, yawning.

“Okay,” she repeats. “Do I even want to know how much that ran you?” Last night, she offered to pay for her ticket, and Crane gently, but firmly refused, stating he will pay since he invited her at the last minute.

He smiles and kisses her neck again, eyes still closed. “No, you do not. Go back to sleep, Love.”

 

xXx

 

“Abbie,” Jenny says, poking her. “You're up.”

Abbie steps up to the register to pay for her purchase. She’s decided to buy a new coat for Ichabod. His is very stylish, but it's very old, fraying, and has a hole in one pocket.

“You sure he's going to like this? He seems kind of attached to his coat,” Jenny comments. “It's a little weird.” She notices the price of the garment when the cashier rings it up. Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she says nothing.

“I know, but I would like to hope if anyone can coax him to give it up, it's me,” Abbie replies. She looks at the cashier. “I'd like a gift receipt for the coat, please.”

Jenny laughs. “Does it have any sentimental value? Like, did it belong to his great-whatever-grandfather who fought in the American Revolution or something? Certainly looks old enough.”

“Ha, no. He's just had it a long time. Since he was an undergrad, he said,” Abbie answers, paying and stepping aside to wait for Jenny to make her purchase. She's buying a cute knit cloche hat for Macey and a pair of boots for herself.

“You shouldn't buy things for yourself this close to Christmas,” Abbie says.

“Why, did you buy me boots?” Jenny asks, raising an eyebrow at her sister.

“No.”

“Then, I don't see the problem.”

Abbie rolls her eyes, laughing.

Jenny collects her bag and they head out. “Hungry?” she asks.

“Yeah. What time do you need to be at work?” Abbie replies.

“One. Ish. We have time,” Jenny answers.

Fifteen minutes later, they are seated at a burger place, waiting for their numbers to be called. Abbie's phone beeps.

_I: Would you like Cornish hens tonight? I feel like cooking._

_A: Sounds good. Would you like me to bring you a burger?_

_I: No, thank you._

_A: Okay. I’ll be home soon._

Abbie pauses, realizing what she's just texted.

_A: Home. Your place. Whatever._

_I: :) W_ _e_ _should go to yours tonight. I can help you pack._

Abbie smiles. _Excited much?_

_I: A little. Enjoy your lunch._

_A: See you soon._

_I: I will be waiting. Send my greetings to Jenny, please._

Abbie looks up at her sister, who is staring at her phone, a curious smile on her face.

_A: Will do._

“Ichabod says, 'Hello',” Abbie says.

Jenny's head pops up. “Huh?”

“Ichabod. He says 'Hello',” she repeats.

“Oh. 'Hi' back.” She sets her phone down. It buzzes once, and she immediately glances at it.

“So, who is he?” Abbie asks, singing the question, leaning forward on her hands.

Jenny leans back, attempting to be cool, slyly slipping her phone back into her coat pocket. “Who is who?”

“The _bo_ _y_ with whom you were just texting,” Abbie says, chuckling over her sister’s silly behavior.

“'With whom'? You've been hanging around British Guy too much,” Jenny deflects.

“Changing the subject... you must really like him,” Abbie presses, grinning.

“Number 143,” a voice calls.

“Me,” Jenny says, flashing her receipt at her sister.

“This conversation isn't over,” Abbie calls.

“Number 144,” the voice speaks again, just as Jenny sits. Abbie stands to get her food, then returns.

“So, you're really going to go with him,” Jenny starts.

“No,” Abbie replies.

“You're _not_ going with him?”

“No, I _am_ going, but we're not talking about that right now,” Abbie says, smiling. “We are talking about you and whoever it is you were texting and why you're being difficult about him.”

“Fine,” Jenny huffs. “His name is Nick. He's a new mentor at the Center.”

“Ooo, is he cute?” Abbie asks, taking a bite of her bacon cheeseburger.

“Maybe,” Jenny answers. “Okay, yes, he is,” she relents, seeing her sister's expression.

“Picture?”

“Don't have one.” Abbie gives her another look. “I really don't, honest! He just got here last week!”

“And, you're already sending flirty texts? Good for you,” Abbie nods, smiling.

“It's not like that,” Jenny says, hiding behind her mushroom and Swiss burger.

“It's not?”

“I knew him. Before,” she admits. “We kind of went out... on and off. Well, more hooked up when we crossed paths.”

“Oh,” Abbie says, understanding. While Abbie was in college, Jenny dropped out of high school and disappeared for two years. She only talks about that time as a cautionary example to her young clients, almost never mentioning it to anyone else, even Abbie.

“It's not like that anymore,” Jenny earnestly says. “You know I've changed.”

Abbie nods. “Of course.”

“He has, too. And, it turns out, we both kind of like who the other one has become, so...”

“So...?”

“So, we're just talking. Getting to know the new usses.”

“'Usses'?”

“You know what I mean,” Jenny says, smiling a little. “He can still be kind of a dick, but he's working on it. Old habits, you know.”

“I know. And, so do you. Be careful, Jenny,” Abbie says, turning serious.

“I am. That's why we're just talking right now. I haven't even let him kiss me yet,” Jenny says.

Abbie smiles again, munching her fries. “You're playing hard to get,” she decides, chuckling.

“Maybe,” Jenny allows, looking away as she drinks her soda.

“I do want to see a picture though. Take one and send it to me,” Abbie says.

“What, I should just go, 'Hey, Hawley, hold up, I need to take a pic of you because my sister wants to see what you look like'?” Jenny asks.

“Yeah,” Abbie answers, as though it should be obvious. “That's totally what you should do.”

“Right, I do that, then he'll want to see what _you_ look like, and then it'll all be over...” Jenny says, but her laughter cancels out the negativity of her words.

“Oh, stop. Even if he is super hot, I am completely spoken for, remember?” Abbie smiles. “And, for the three thousandth time, I am _not_ prettier than you,” she adds, playfully sticking her tongue out.

“Not when you make that face, you're not,” Jenny agrees, grinning. She wads up her napkin and tosses it on her tray. “Speaking of being 'completely spoken for', you're leaving when?”

“Sunday evening,” Abbie answers. “We're staying the whole week. We’ll be back Saturday. He thought it would be nice to stay a little longer, so he could show me some of the sights. And, see his parents for more than a day.”

“Nice,” Jenny says, nodding. “You’re staying at their house?”

“Yeah. A little intimidating, considering I've never met them, but there's no reason why he should stay in a hotel when his folks have a huge-ass house.”

“Oh, that's right, he's super rich or something, right?”

“His parents are,” Abbie clarifies. “Well, okay, he kind of is, too, but his parents are richer.”

“That's handy,” Jenny says. “I bet all those last-minute flight arrangements cost a pretty penny.”

Abbie nods. “I don't know how much, but it can't have been cheap.” She picks up a fry, looks at it, then tosses it back onto the waxed paper wrapper from her burger. “Ugh. Full.”

Jenny looks thoughtfully at her sister. “I'll miss you,” she says, uncharacteristically serious.

“I'll only be gone a week. You'll get my mail, right?”

“Yes, I will, but I meant I'll miss you when you move away to London with him,” Jenny clarifies.

“No one has said anything about moving,” Abbie weakly protests. She already has a pretty strong feeling she will move if he gets the job. _It's scary and a huge decision, but I think I'd do it. For him, I_ would _do it_.

“Well, how else is this going to work? You stay here and he goes there and you long-distance it? No. That's no way to do things. I mean, technology has come a long way, but you still can't touch someone over a computer,” Jenny says. “There's a lot to be said for physical proximity, especially when you love someone.”

“I know,” Abbie quietly agrees. “But, there’s no guarantee he’ll even get the job.”

“Pssh. Like he's _not_ going to get the job,” Jenny says.

“I know,” Abbie says again, even softer. “I'll just go with him next week and... I'll just see. See what I think. See what it's like.”

“Exactly,” Jenny says. She reaches across the table and puts her hand over her sister's. “Abs. If you decide you want to go live there, _go._ Do it. Don't think you need to stay here because of me. I'll miss you tons, but you've spent your whole life taking care of other people. Taking care of me,” she amends. “It's time you do something for _you._ ”

Abbie hastily wipes her eyes with a napkin. “Damn it, do not make me cry in the middle of this restaurant,” she says, snorting a laugh.

“Too late,” Jenny says, blinking back her own tears. She squeezes her sister's hand, then releases it. “I need to get to work,” she says, looking at her watch.

“Okay.” Abbie stands and shrugs on her coat. She grabs her cane and her tray and follows Jenny to the trash receptacle where Jenny takes Abbie's tray and empties it into the bin for her.

“Thanks,” Abbie says.

“Easier with two hands,” Jenny replies, indicating Abbie's hand on her cane. “Can you drop me at work?”

“Sure. How are you going to get home?”

“I'll ask Nick for a lift,” Jenny says.

Abbie snorts. “Oh, come on, no crude jokes about him _giving you a ride_? I'm almost disappointed.”

Jenny laughs and follows Abbie to her car. “Trying to be good, remember?”

Inside the car, they are quiet for a few moments. Then, Jenny suddenly speaks.

“If you move over there, I'll get to come visit you.” She smiles at Abbie. “I've always wanted to see London.”

“Well, technically, I'd probably be living in Oxford. Ichabod says it's about an hour from London,” Abbie says.

“Close enough,” Jenny says. “Where do his parents live?”

“A place called Islington. It's a suburb of London, I guess,” Abbie answers.

“I bet they have one of those big manor homes, all stone with, like, gargoyles and shit,” Jenny says.

Abbie laughs. “I doubt they'll have gargoyles. Maybe a fountain,” she says, looking sideways at her sister. “A big one. With swans.”

“Ooo, now you're talking,” Jenny says, laughing. “Don't forget about us peasants when you're having high tea with the Queen,” she adds.

“We will endeavor not to forget our younger sister when we have become posh,” Abbie says, affecting a very haughty, very bad English accent.

“Yeah, because _we_ know _our_ younger sister will come over there and kick, um... _our_ posh backside,” Jenny says, laughing.

Abbie pulls into the parking lot of the Youth Services Center where Jenny works. “Come here,” she says, reaching out to her sister across the center console.

The sisters hug tightly. “Love you, Abbie,” Jenny quietly says.

“Love you, too, Jen,” Abbie replies, sniffling. “See you Thursday.”

“Yeah,” Jenny nods, wiping her eyes. “Pop the hatch so I can get my bags.”

 

xXx

 

Thursday is Christmas Eve. Jenny, Abbie, and Crane spend the evening together.

Crane (on Abbie's advice) gives Jenny a pair of gloves with the fingertips that work on smartphone touch screens. Jenny gives him a big hardcover book about slavery and its role in the creation of the United States. He is touched and impressed, and immediately starts leafing through it. Jenny gives Abbie a sweater she had been eyeing, a Barnes and Noble gift card, and the last Harry Potter book, completing the set with which she had been gifting her over the last several years. Abbie gives Jenny a coffee table book about Disney Villains (her guilty pleasure), and a leather jacket Jenny had been eyeing for months, but would never buy.

They have lasagna for dinner, then watch old Christmas movies until it's time to go to church for the 11:00 service.

They part ways after church, Jenny going back to her place, Crane and Abbie going to Abbie's. Exhausted, they collapse into bed and fall asleep almost immediately.

Since Sheriff Corbin died, Jenny prefers to spend Christmas Day sleeping in. Once she gets up, she spends the day on the couch in fuzzy pants watching _A Christmas Story_ on TBS ad nauseum while she drinks cocoa (often spiked, come evening) and eats junk food. She says it is her Christmas gift to herself.

Sometimes, Abbie joins the Irving family for dinner. Today, she spends the day with Ichabod. Like Jenny, they sleep in.

After a break to use the bathroom and freshen up a little, they exchange gifts in bed, neither really wanting to leave their cozy cocoon.

“Goodness, this is large,” Crane comments, taking the large gift bag from Abbie. She plops down on the bed, watching nervously. “Why do you look anxious, my love?” he asks.

“Just open it,” she says. “If you don't like it, we can...”

“Shh,” he gently shushes her, leaning over to kiss her. “I'm sure I will love whatever you've gotten me.”

She presses her lips together, not sure. _He loves that old coat._

He digs into the bag, pulling the coat out. “What on earth...?”

“You hate it,” she says.

“No, I'm just not certain what it... oh! It's a coat!” he declares, unfolding it all the way. He immediately climbs out of bed and tries it on. It's the same kind of long wool coat he favors, in a shade of burgundy so dark it almost looks black. “This is very nice,” he declares, assessing himself in the mirror. He looks at her. “You do not care for my present coat?”

“I like it,” she answers, “but it's super old and falling apart.”

“I know,” he sighs. “You are, of course, correct. And, I do like this very much.” He faces her and strikes various catalog model poses, including One Hand in the Trouser Pocket (though in this case, it is pajama shorts pretend pocket), Checking the (imaginary) Watch, and Waving at a Friend Off Camera.

Abbie falls over laughing, and when Crane closes the coat, she laughs harder.

“What?” he asks. “I'm just checking the fit with the buttons done up.”

“You look like a flasher,” she says, pointing at his bare knees. “The coat is longer than your shorts.”

He looks down, then turns to look in the mirror. “Indeed,” he laughs, unbuttoning the coat and placing it on a chair. He slips back into bed and hands her two smallish wrapped boxes.

“Two?” she asks.

“You'll see,” he says. “This one first.” He taps the smaller of the two.

She unwraps it and puzzles over the item a moment, reading the box. “Is it what it says on the box?” she asks.

“Yes. Apologies for the boring, practical gift, but I thought you might need it for our trip,” he explains.

“Thank you, I didn't even think of needing an adaptor,” she replies, smiling. “My cell phone charger and flat iron won't be any good if I can't plug them in, right?”

“That was my thought, Love,” he says. “Open the other,” he prompts.

“Okay,” she says, opening the other one. It's a beautiful watch with a stainless steel band and dark blue mother-of-pearl face. It's elegant, but not too fancy to wear every day. “How did you...?”

He smiles. “I noticed you have a habit of looking at your wrist, then scowling before pulling out your mobile to check the time. I deduced you must have recently lost or had to throw a watch away.”

She hugs him, still holding the partially-freed watch, then kisses him, impressed at how closely he pays attention to her. “Thank you. I love it. I love you.”

“I love you, Abbie,” he answers, kissing her again.

“I have trouble finding watches,” she says, trying it on. She holds up her wrist to show him the watch dangling from it. “This is why. I'll take it tomorrow and have a couple of the links taken out.” She inspects it. “Yeah, it'll be good. Sometimes the watch is just too big and it won't fit, even with removing links or getting a new band.” She takes the watch off, sets the time, and places it on the nightstand.

When she turns around, he immediately kisses her, eliciting a squeak of surprise from her throat as her arms wrap around him. “Thank you, Abbie. I love my new coat,” he murmurs, pulling her over him as he lies back down, inadvertently knocking boxes and wrappings to the floor.

“You're welcome,” she answers between kisses. “I can't have my man looking shabby, you know.”

His hands slide up under her pajama top, roving her soft, warm skin. “Heavens, no,” he absently answers, his mind clearly elsewhere.

He pulls her shirt off and presses his lips to her neck, placing hot, wet kisses there. “Mmm... now, we just need to do something about those Cliff Huxtable sweaters of yours...” Abbie continues, her voice a bit breathier now.

He lifts his head. “What's wrong with my sweaters?” he asks.

“You want to talk about this _now_?” she asks, unsuccessfully trying to hold back her giggles as her fingers worm under his shirt, trailing over his chest.

“Good point,” he says. He shucks his t-shirt, then dives back in.

 

xXx

 

Abbie and Crane make breakfast together, but it's so late by the time they get around to it, their French toast, bacon, and eggs turns into brunch. They eat in the living room while starting to watch the extended versions of the _Lord of the Rings_ movies.

Towards the end of _Fellowship of the Ring,_ Crane's phone buzzes with a text message. He reaches out and gropes for his phone. “Later than I expected,” he mumbles, reading the message.

“What is?” she asks.

“Festive holiday greetings from Mum and Dad,” he explains. His phone buzzes again. “She wants to know if I am available for a Skype call. I’ll just tell her I’m here,” he says, starting to type.

“I have Skype,” Abbie offers. _Are you seriously ready to meet his parents? Well, you're going to meet them soon anyway, and considering this relationship just got way serious, it's probably time._

“Oh… you don’t mind?” he asks, looking up from his phone.

“Why would I mind meeting your parents?” she asks, angling her head at him.

“Um, I meant you don’t mind my calling them instead of spending time with you,” he clarifies. He immediately realizes that wasn’t exactly the correct response.

“Do you want me to give you some privacy?” she asks, suddenly unsure. _Are we misunderstanding each other?_

“No! No. I mean… I’m sorry. I would very much like for you to meet my parents. If you are ready, of course,” he says, taking her hands in his. He lifts them and kisses them.

“I’d like to meet them,” she softly replies, even though her heart is pounding a little harder over the prospect.

“Oh, good.” He grins broadly, very excited to be able to introduce her sooner than he had anticipated. He leans forward and kisses her lips.

“It’s going to be unavoidable in a few days,” she points out, returning his infectious smile. “I mean, we _are_ staying with them while we're there…”

“Yes. Right. Well, no time like the present then,” he says, kissing her fingers once more before returning his attention to his phone to delete what he’d already typed. “What is your Skype name?”

“The very unoriginal LtGAM85. Lower case ‘t’, the rest in caps,” she answers, untangling herself from him and reaching for her laptop.

“Considering mine is 'IchabodCrane', I am not one to judge,” he dryly comments, sending the text to his mother with Abbie's Skype information.

Abbie snorts a laugh, firing up Skype. “Um, Ichabod?” she asks, something occurring to her. “Did you tell your parents I’m black?”

He looks at her. “No, I didn't _tell_ them, but I did send them a photo I took of you with my mobile.”

“Which one?” she asks.

He sweeps his finger around the screen and shows her. It's the one he snapped at the coffee shop. She had just arrived and still had her light gray scarf around her neck and there were snowflakes in her hair. Crane had said she looked like a Snow Princess and took a picture of her smiling face. “My favorite one,” he says.

She smiles, remembering. “What did they say?” she quietly asks. He furrows his brows, slightly puzzled. “I'm sorry, it's just that I don’t want to make any assumptions. I’ve dealt with this before, and sometimes it’s an unexpectedly unpleasant surprise. I just have to check and make sure Christmas isn't going to suddenly be all awkward for everyone,” she says.

“I understand,” Crane nods, leaning over to place a reassuring kiss on her lips. “My mother said she loved your scarf and my father said you have beautiful eyes.” He takes her hand and kisses it. “They have no problem with you at all, my love. In fact, I'm certain my mother is beside herself with joy that she'll finally get to meet you.”

Abbie's laptop starts ringing. She jumps in surprise and passes it to Ichabod.

He clicks the Answer icon. “Happy Christmas, Mum, Dad,” he greets.

“Happy Christmas, Ichabod,” they answer.

“So, where is Abbie?” his mother immediately asks, eager to see the young woman who has so completely stolen her son’s heart.

Ichabod turns the computer slightly as Abbie scoots closer. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Crane,” she says.

“Hello, dear, Happy Christmas,” Mrs. Crane says. “Oh, you say ‘Merry Christmas’ in America, don’t you?” she asks.

Abbie laughs. “The sentiment translates,” she says. “Merry Christmas to both of you.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Crane says, fondly smiling. “Oh, you're even lovelier than in the photo Ichabod sent,” she gushes.

“Yes, she is, Mum,” Ichabod agrees. “Oh, I should make proper introductions. Cuthbert and Phillipa Crane, this is Abigail Mills, former police lieutenant, professor of Criminal Science, and my girlfriend,” he says. “Abbie, my parents. My father is retired from publishing and my mother does volunteer work with underprivileged children.”

“Very nice to finally meet you, Abbie,” Mr. Crane speaks. “Ichabod speaks very highly of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crane,” she says. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting the two of you as well.” She smiles at the pair. Ichabod sounds like his father, but looks like his mother. He has her kind, intelligent eyes. _But, the forehead... that's his dad's._

“I simply cannot wait to meet you in person, Abbie,” Mrs. Crane says. “Ichabod, I’ve got your room all ready, and I’ll be getting the guest room made up with fresh linens as well, and…”

“Mum,” Ichabod interrupts, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Um, that won’t be necessary…”

She looks puzzled. “Oh, don't tell me you’re not staying here? Have they booked a hotel for you?” she asks.

Abbie looks anywhere but at Mrs. Crane, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness. Inadvertently, her eyes meet Mr. Crane’s on the screen and she sees he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Suddenly, she needs to suppress a giggle of her own. “Phillipa,” Mr. Crane says, clearing his throat as well, but for a very different reason, “I think our son is trying to tell you that Abbie will be sharing his room.”

“Oh. Oh! Goodness. Right. Of course,” Mrs. Crane says, blushing. “Oh, dear…”

“So, Abbie, you were a police officer?” Mr. Crane asks, rescuing the conversation.


	10. Chapter 10

“That was a long flight,” Abbie sighs, leaning against Crane in the back of the car. Oxford had already arranged for their transportation to the Crane house from Heathrow. The elder Mr. Crane admitted he wasn't keen to fight motorway traffic on a Monday morning, so Ichabod didn't bother canceling the transport.

“At least we managed to get some sleep,” Crane replies, kissing the top of her head.

“Ugh, I still feel exhausted and I look like hell. Your folks are going to see me and think, 'Who is this raggedy girl? What happened to Abbie?'” she sighs.

“They will think no such thing. You look as beautiful as always,” he assures her, gently lifting her chin to kiss her.

“Thank you for your blind devotion,” she answers, smiling. She settles back against his shoulder. “I did enjoy the shuttle rides in the airport. Having a cane comes in handy sometimes, I will admit.”

“I've never gotten through customs so quickly,” Crane agrees. When they checked in at JFK, the attendant noticed Abbie's cane and asked if she would like assistance. Abbie hesitated for a moment, her immediate impulse to be proud and decline. Then, she realized said impulse was stupid and she'd get to ride on one of those big golf cart things that beep while everyone else has to walk. Plus, they'd get through security and customs faster, too, so she agreed.

“I almost said ’No’,” Abbie admits.

“I am aware,” he says, chuckling. “I was prepared to, um, help you see reason on that subject.”

She laughs a little, but is touched by his continued care for her. On the flight, he made sure she got up to walk around periodically and was more concerned with her comfort than his own. “I have no hope of being truly comfortable anyway, so I may as well fret over you,” he had explained, his lanky six feet, one inch frame crammed uncomfortably into his seat.

“What time is your interview? Two?” Abbie asks. She's trying to look at the scenery outside, but her eyes keep closing.

“Yes. I am hoping to squeeze in a nap yet this morning,” Crane says, looking at his watch. “Should have enough time to sleep a bit before lunch.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she agrees. “It may be,” she looks at her watch, “7:45 in the morning here, but our bodies think it’s 1:45 a.m.”

“It is an adjustment,” he says, yawning. “And, once we are fully acclimated, it'll be time to return to Sleepy Hollow.”

“Hooray,” she unenthusiastically comments.

 

xXx

 

Phillipa Crane greets them with enthusiastic hugs as soon as they step through the door.

“Ichabod!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around her only child, hugging him tightly. She is tall and slender, with short, salt-and-pepper hair. “And, Abbie, how wonderful to see you in person,” she says, enveloping her in a hug as well. “My, but you are a tiny thing!” she exclaims, holding her at arms' length.

Abbie smiles, chuckling. “Good seeing you, too, ma'am,” she replies.

“Phillipa, at least let them in the door,” Mr. Crane says, standing a short distance behind his wife. He is as tall as Ichabod, also thin, and his hair is fully gray.

They take a few more steps inside, then Ichabod's hands softly land on Abbie's shoulders, and she allows him to remove her coat.

“Is that new, Ichabod?” Mrs. Crane asks, looking at the burgundy coat slung over his arm.

“Yes,” he answers. He hangs up Abbie's coat in a closet, then holds his up for inspection.

“I am _so_ glad you finally got rid of that old rag,” his mother says, reaching out to touch the wool. “It wasn’t fit for use as a drop cloth.”

“Well, you can thank Abbie for that. This is my Christmas gift from her,” he says. “Apparently, she shares your opinion of my old coat.”

“Oh, thank you, Abbie,” she says, turning towards the younger woman. “I've been trying to get him to give that thing up for years.”

Abbie laughs. “You're very welcome.”

“Is there any chance you can get him to cut his hair?” Mrs. Crane conspiratorially asks.

Ichabod sighs dramatically, hanging up his coat.

“Actually, I like his hair,” Abbie answers, giggling. She sees Ichabod removing his boots, so she follows suit, placing hers beside his.

“You are fighting a losing battle, Phillipa.” Mr. Crane steps towards Ichabod and warmly shakes his son's hand. “Good to see you, Son,” he comments. “Good flight?”

“As good as can be expected,” Ichabod answers. “Actually, better, because of the agreeable company,” he adds, smiling down at Abbie.

“Of course,” Mr. Crane nods. He clasps Abbie's hand, then, to her surprise, leans down and kisses her cheek. “Abbie, lovely to see you again.”

“Hello, Mr. Crane,” she answers.

“Are you hungry? Did you eat breakfast? I could make some—” Mrs. Crane starts.

“No, Mum, that's quite all right,” Ichabod says, holding his hand up. “We have eaten. We would actually like to have a bit of a rest before lunch, if you do not mind.”

“Oh, of course, you must be exhausted, and you do want to be fresh for your interview this afternoon,” she replies, nodding. “I've just started making some soup for lunch, and Bert is due for his time on the exercise bike,” she adds, looking pointedly at her husband.

“Yes, dear, I wasn't trying to avoid it, I promise,” Mr. Crane insists. “High cholesterol and borderline high blood pressure. You wouldn't think it of a string bean like me, but one cannot fight genetics, I'm afraid,” he explains to Abbie.

“Indeed not,” she agrees.

“Shall I call for you at lunchtime?” Mrs. Crane asks.

“That would be fine, Mum, thank you,” Ichabod says, lifting both suitcases. “I'd like to leave for Oxford no later than 12:45,” he adds.

“Understood,” his mother nods approvingly. “Off you go, get some rest.”

Abbie follows Ichabod through the foyer, up a wide staircase, and down a long hallway. “Bathroom,” he points to a door. “I do have an en suite, however,” he adds, opening another.

“Nice,” she says, stepping into his room.

“I didn't always,” he clarifies. “Mum and Dad didn't think a child needed his own attached bathroom. I moved into this room when I was 16.”

“Ah,” she answers, looking around. There are several trophies on one shelf, and she wanders over to look at them. _Chess. Fencing; I’d like to see him doing that. Another Chess. History Bowl? Shouldn’t be surprised._ “Nice room. Big, but still cozy,” she comments. _This room is bigger than the trailer I lived in with Mr. and Mrs. Wagner when I was 14._

He smiles, watching her inspecting his old room. “This entire house is overly large,” he says.

“How many bedrooms?” she asks, pulling the Christmas gifts she brought for his parents out of her suitcase. _Would not do to arrive empty handed, especially this close to Christmas._

“Seven,” he says. “Four and a half bathrooms.” He stares into his suitcase a moment. Then, he removes the suit he intends to wear to the interview, and hangs it up. “Survived nicely,” he mutters, looking for wrinkles and creases.

Abbie pulls a pair of flannel pants and her toiletry bag out of her suitcase. She decides to leave everything else as is for the moment, and goes to the bathroom.

Ichabod puzzles after her, wondering why she's going into the bathroom to change.

“Have to pee,” she explains. “Killing two birds.”

“Of course,” he nods.

He ducks into the bathroom when she emerges, jeans and bra in her hand. She sets them on her suitcase, then ponders his bed a moment. Pulling the blankets back, she realizes she feels a bit like a trespasser, but is not sure why. _He won't care. In fact, if I didn't, he'd probably wonder why. You're being silly._

“Would it bother you if I set an alarm? I should like to shower before my mother comes knocking,” Crane says, his phone in his hand. He's stripped down to his undershirt and boxer briefs.

“No, that's fine,” Abbie answers. “Good idea, too.”

He nods and sets the device on the nightstand, then climbs into bed. She slips under the covers and curls up in front of him. He spoons behind her, holding her close.

“I've never had a young lady in this bed,” he softly comments.

“Good,” she says, laughing. “This is a comfy bed,” she adds, sighing contentedly. “Or, I'm just really tired. I can't tell.”

“Perhaps both,” he suggests. “I'm glad you're here, Abbie. I love you. So much.” He nuzzles, then kisses the side of her neck.

“I'm glad I came, Ichabod. I love you, too.”

 

xXx

 

Crane wakes three minutes before his alarm goes off. He turns it off so it won't wake Abbie, and climbs out of bed, tucking the blankets around her.

When he comes out of the shower, she's awake, sitting up in bed with her laptop. “Chatting with Jenny on Facebook,” she says. She's trying not to use her cell phone while in the U.K., knowing that her bill will be astronomical if she does. _Mental note to get one of those international plans if we move._

“Isn't it rather early there?” he asks.

“Jenny doesn't sleep much,” she answers. “She says, 'Hi' and wishes you luck on your interview.”

“Please thank her for me. And, 'Hello' to her as well,” he says, dressing.

“Okay.”

Just as he is buckling his belt, a soft knock sounds at the door. He walks over and opens it.

“Oh! You're already awake,” Mrs. Crane says, surprised to see her son not only up, but dressed.

“Yes, and good thing, too. Your knock would not have woken anyone,” he says, chuckling.

“I was building up to the battering ram,” she answers.

Abbie laughs, closes her laptop, and climbs out of bed.

“Lunch is ready whenever you are,” Mrs. Crane informs. “Abbie, those sleep trousers are adorable.”

Abbie looks down. Her pajama pants are ice blue flannel with snowflakes. “Thanks,” she says, looking up. “They're very cozy.”

“We'll be down shortly, Mum,” Ichabod says.

“All right, Noodle,” she says, turning and leaving.

“'Noodle'?” Abbie asks, smiling. “Ooo, I was waiting for that.” Her grin broadens.

“Yes, yes, now all of my secrets are out,” he says. “Did... did your parents have a pet name for you?” he asks, knowing he is treading on delicate ground.

“Not really,” Abbie says, changing back into her street clothes. “Mama would call Jenny and me 'Sweetheart', or sometimes 'Baby'. But, we didn't have nicknames or anything. If anything, she called us by our full names more often than not. If I was in trouble, then I was 'Grace Abigail'.”

“Of course,” he agrees, walking into the bathroom to tie his hair back. “I was 'Ichabod Nathaniel',” he calls over his shoulder.

“That's certainly a mouthful,” Abbie says, joining him in the bathroom to unbraid her hair and see how slept-on it looks. “Ugh,” she says, pulling a comb through it.

“You look beautiful, Abbie,” Crane says.

“Thank you,” she says, setting her comb down. She turns and straightens his tie. “You look really good,” she adds, gently tugging his tie until he leans down and kisses her.

“Thank you,” he replies. “Ready for some lunch, my love?”

“Yes. I'm hungry.”

They head downstairs where Mrs. Crane has a pot of cream of chicken with rice soup and a loaf of French bread waiting. They take bowls and she serves the thick soup.

“Mmm, this smells really good,” Abbie says.

“I was originally going to make chicken, but I thought with this weather, something a little heartier would be better suited,” she says. “I do hope you like it.”

They sit and eat. The soup is excellent. They chat companionably while they eat, Mr. and Mrs. Crane asking Abbie polite questions about herself which she happily answers, often replying with questions of her own.

“Will you be back for dinner?” Mrs. Crane asks as Abbie and Ichabod stand and clear their places.

“I don't see why we wouldn't be,” Ichabod answers.

“Oh, are you going with Ichabod, Abbie?” Mrs. Crane turns towards Abbie.

“Yes. I'd like to see Oxford,” she says. “I can keep myself occupied while Ichabod is in his interview.”

“Of course,” the older woman smiles, but seems disappointed.

“Mum?” Ichabod asks, angling his head at her.

“I had a notion we could go shopping while you were gone, that's all,” she admits.

“Oh, um...” Abbie starts, glancing at Ichabod.

“Mum, we're here all week. I promise you will have time to take Abbie to Harrod's or wherever you would like to go,” he says, placing his arm around his mother's shoulders. “I'll even stay home with Dad if you want 'girls only' time.”

Mrs. Crane brightens. “Fair enough. I don't want to exclude you, of course, which is why I thought we'd go while you were at Oxford.”

“Of course,” he echoes. “You know how much I _love_ spending the day shopping,” he sarcastically adds.

“I did promise to return with souvenirs,” Abbie points out.

“We can work out the details this evening. I have a few sights I'd like to show Abbie,” Ichabod says.

“Yes. Tonight. Which brings me back to my original question,” Mrs. Crane says. “Dinner?”

“Would you like me to phone when we are on our way back?” Ichabod asks.

“Yes, please,” his mother answers. “Abbie, dear, have you ever heard of bubble and squeak?”

Abbie smiles. “I know it's one of Ichabod's favorites,” she answers, “and I've looked at recipes online for it. There seem to be endless variations.”

“Indeed there are,” Mrs. Crane agrees.

“One of the perks of living in the U.S.,” Ichabod says. “When I come back here, Mum makes all of my favorites.”

“Makes sense to me,” Abbie replies. She notices the clock on the stove says 12:41. “Should we get going?”

Ichabod checks his watch. “Yes, we should.” He bends down to receive a hug from his mother.

“They are going to love you,” Mrs. Crane says.

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Drive safe,” Mr. Crane comments, clapping his son on the shoulder. “Go get that job.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Ichabod answers.

 

xXx

 

Crane finds the building he needs with no trouble, his eidetic memory proving invaluable once again. He parks the car nearby. “You can drive into town if you get bored,” he says, handing Abbie the keys.

“Oh, man, I'd probably wind up driving on the wrong side of the road,” she laughs, but takes the keys.

“I highly doubt it,” he replies, climbing out of the car.

“It's weird having you drive, by the way,” she says.

“I never said I _couldn't_ drive,” he points out. “I merely stated I did not have a license to do so in the States.”

“That's right, you did,” she allows, walking beside him. “This place is amazing,” she says, looking around. “I'm glad school isn't in session right now. I'm gawking like a tourist,” she laughs.

They stop walking outside the doors. He smiles down at her. “Don't get lost,” he says.

“I'll try not to. I have your mom's phone, so if I do, I can call your dad or something. Or, just pick a random name from her contacts list. That could be fun,” she grins. Mindful of Abbie's wish to not use her phone unless absolutely necessary, but concerned for her safety, Mrs. Crane offered Abbie her cell phone for the afternoon.

“Dr. Crane?” a man's voice calls.

They both turn. “Yes,” Crane answers, straightening up. “Dr. Hayward, wonderful to meet you,” he greets, recognizing his voice.

The men shake hands, and Hayward glances at Abbie.

“Oh, Dr. Nigel Hayward, this is Abigail Mills, professor of Criminal Science at Sleepy Hollow University,” Crane introduces her.

“Ah, yes, the traveling companion,” the other man says, shaking Abbie's hand. Dr. Hayward is a short, slightly disheveled, round man with a gentle demeanor and twinkling eyes.

“Well, she is a bit more than that,” Crane says, smiling.

“Very nice to meet you, sir,” Abbie says, shaking Hayward's offered hand.

“Enchanted, my dear,” Hayward replies. “Enjoy your stay here.”

“Thank you, I will certainly try,” she answers, smiling.

“Well, then, Dr. Crane. Shall we?” Hayward asks, indicating the doors. “Oliver and Pendleton are already here. Summers is always late, but he'll be along.”

Crane smiles. “After you,” he answers.

Abbie gives him a smile and small wave, wishing she could give him a kiss for luck.

“We'll only keep him about an hour, Miss Mills,” Hayward says, nodding at her.

“Thank you,” she answers.

Hayward turns to unlock the door, and Crane glances back at Abbie. She blows him a kiss, and he mouths the words “Love you” in reply before disappearing inside.

Abbie stares at the doors for about ten seconds, then turns and looks around the snow-covered campus. She is just about to start walking to investigate a statue she has spotted, when a young man comes rushing up, making a beeline for the doors.

He very nearly skids to a halt when he sees Abbie, hastily smoothing his open overcoat, then fussing with his scarf, attempting to appear as though he is not running very late. “Miss,” he says, nodding and smiling at her.

“Hello,” she says. _This must be Summers._

“Are you lost?” he asks, casually looking her over, his eyes settling on her cane with curiosity a moment before snapping back to her face.

“No. I'm here with Dr. Crane. They've just gone inside,” she nods to the doors.

“Ah. Right. Well. I suppose I should join them,” he replies. He puzzles at her for a brief moment, then continues to the doors.

 _What a strange man._ As Abbie walks towards the statue, it begins to lightly snow.

She wanders the campus, keeping an eye on both the time and her surroundings, not wishing to lose her way and not be able to return to the building in which she left Crane. It's mostly empty of people, but once or twice she sees another person. Mrs. Crane's phone rings once, a call from someone called Leigh. She lets it go to voicemail, then texts Mr. Crane, asking him to tell his wife she got a call.

At 2:55, she makes her way back and waits.

“Can I help you, Miss?” a polite voice asks a few minutes later.

Abbie turns. “Oh, um, sorry, am I loitering? I'm supposed to meet someone here,” she says to the campus security guard, a man who appears only slightly older than herself. “He's interviewing for a position in the History department.”

“Very good,” the guard says, nodding. He turns to leave, then turns back. “You're American?” he asks, bored enough to be curious. He walks over.

“Yes. My friend is British though. We're both professors at Sleepy Hollow University in New York,” she says.

“You look a might young to be a professor, if you don't mind my saying, Miss,” he says.

“Abbie,” she tells him. “And, I don't mind. I know I look young. Short person problems,” she chuckles, shifting her weight slightly, leaning on her cane a little more.

“Are you all right, Miss? Er, Abbie,” he corrects. “I can let you inside so you can have a seat, if you like. There's a definite nip in the air today,” he says, brandishing a ring of keys.

“That would be nice,” she agrees. He strides ahead and opens the door for her.

“Thank you,” she says.

He nods, then follows her inside. “Get the blood flowing again,” he says, stomping the snow from his booted feet. Abbie sits on a leather chair, removing her gloves and rubbing her hands together. She unwinds her scarf from around her neck. “You say you're a professor?” the guard asks, leaning against the wall nearby.

“Yes. Criminal Science,” she answers, smiling at his surprised expression. “Used to be a police officer,” she adds.

“Did you now?” he asks, his eyebrows lifting. He walks closer and sits in the chair opposite Abbie.

By the time Crane joins them (twenty minutes later), Abbie and the guard are in deep conversation, trading stories. “Sorry, Love, it went longer than I expected...” his voice trails off as he approaches the pair.

“Ichabod,” Abbie looks up and smiles. “It's all right. My new friend Daniel was kind enough to let me wait inside,” she says, indicating the guard. “Ichabod Crane, Daniel Palmer. Daniel, Ichabod.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Crane says, shaking the guard's hand. “And, thank you for looking after Abbie in my absence. I was worried she was freezing to death outside.”

“It was my pleasure, Dr. Crane,” Daniel replies. “What kind of guard would I be if I let people stand around in the cold?”

“He thought I was loitering,” Abbie jokes. “And, for the record, it's not _that_ cold. I'm from New York; it'll take more than a few snowflakes to freeze me out.”

“Oh, so does that mean I _can't_ interest you in a steaming cup of cocoa before we head home?” Crane asks, arching his eyebrow at her.

“If she's not interested, I'll go,” Daniel offers, chuckling.

“I am definitely down for some cocoa,” Abbie says, laughing, pulling her gloves on again. “Daniel, thank you for the company and shelter.” She offers her hand.

“Miss Abbie, it was a pleasure. I hope to see you again,” Daniel says, warmly shaking her hand.

“Well, we shall see,” she smiles, glancing up at Crane. He catches her eyes and smiles back, wondering if the hopeful light he sees in her eyes is his imagination.

“Best of luck to you, Dr. Crane,” Daniel turns to Crane and shakes his hand again.

“Thank you, officer,” Crane answers, putting his arm around Abbie. “Happy New Year to you, Sir,” he concludes.

“Happy New Year,” Daniel replies. He accompanies them to the door, turns the lever to unlock it from the inside, and opens it for them. The guard remains inside a little longer, watching the couple walk away. About 20 yards away, they stop. Crane gently lifts Abbie's chin, bends down, and sweetly kisses her as snowflakes gently fall around them.

 

xXx

 

“This is really good,” Abbie says, swallowing her first bite of dinner. “Real comfort food.”

“Yes, it's very hearty. Good on a cold, snowy evening like this,” Ichabod agrees.

“Like chili,” Abbie theorizes, “or... a nice, thick potato soup. Oh! Or, the soup we had for lunch.” She smiles across the table at Mrs. Crane, who returns the gesture.

“Mmm, yes,” Ichabod nods.

“Sorry,” Abbie says, remembering herself. “I interrupted your story, Ichabod.”

“Quite all right, Love,” he replies. He continues telling his parents about the interview. “Once Summers arrived, I thought they would start asking me the standard questions about my teaching philosophy, areas of specialty and the like, but they didn't.”

“That's odd,” Mrs. Crane comments.

“I thought so, too. I'm a bit worried that I wasn't as articulate as I could have been due to my surprise over the overall tone of the meeting. It was very casual, and I was not prepared for that,” he says, frowning.

“It wasn't an interview, it was a date,” Mr. Crane remarks. The older man does not speak much, but when he does, what he says is usually worth hearing. Three sets of eyes turn to him, waiting for further explanation. “They already know they wish to hire you,” he explains. “They were seeing how you fit into the department. How your personality worked with all of theirs.”

“You think so?” Ichabod asks.

“I used to run a publishing company, Son,” his father answers. “I may know a thing or two about hiring people. Once in a while, you stumble upon a person you just _know_ will work out. You look at their C.V. and think, 'Yes, this is the right person,' but you still must interview them. Basically, it becomes a formality, but the person being interviewed doesn't know that.”

“You think that's what this was?” Ichabod asks.

“It certainly seems that way,” Mr. Crane says. “I hired one or two people in such a manner, and both worked out very well. Basically, my thinking was if the person didn't, er, soil himself during the interview, I'd hire him.”

Abbie nearly chokes on her drink, her coughs gradually turning into laughter.

“Forgive me, dear,” he apologizes.

“I'm good,” she replies. “It was just really funny.”

Ichabod reaches over and squeezes Abbie's hand. “I can assure you I most definitely did not ‘soil’ myself,” he says.

“I'd be horrified if you had,” Mrs. Crane says. “So, they didn't ask you _anything_ about your teaching style or research?”

“They did ask you about American History,” Abbie points out. She, of course, heard all of the details in the car during the drive back.

“Yes, they did,” Ichabod agrees. “Which was the one topic about which they asked the most. They were interested in how much I knew about Ancient History and classical mythologies as well.”

“All topics totally in his wheelhouse,” Abbie says. His parents nod in agreement. It's silent for a few moments, no one willing to bring up the topics on everyone's mind: will Ichabod move back, and will Abbie move with him?

“Did they say when next they'd be contacting you?” Mrs. Crane asks, breaking the silence.

“Dr. Hayward said he would try to get information to me before I leave,” Ichabod answers.

“Oh, good. I do hope he calls soon,” his mother answers. “I might be more anxious than you are.”

“I have no doubt of that, dear,” Mr. Crane remarks, reaching over and patting his wife's hand.

Abbie wonders if she should say something to address the elephant in the room, but doesn't exactly know what. She and Ichabod had agreed not to make any Big Decisions until they hear from Dr. Hayward. _Not your place to bring it up in front of his parents anyway, even if we had come to a decision._ She looks over at him and isn't surprised to see him watching her. He holds his hand out, and she places hers in it. Then, he lifts her small hand to his lips, kissing it softly.

Mrs. Crane smiles at the couple, pleased her son has found someone who makes him so happy. In truth, her anxiety about this job opportunity comes from both the job itself and worry that Abbie will decide to stay in the States if Ichabod accepts the position. _I really like her. She is good for him and he loves her so much._ “Are you very tired yet, Noodle?” she asks, standing to clear the dishes.

“A bit,” Ichabod answers, standing as well. Abbie also stands and helps.

“Oh, please, sit down,” Mrs. Crane says, attempting to wave their help away. “It's no trouble.”

“Yes, but it’ll be completed that much quicker for our help,” Ichabod answers, stubbornly following his mother to the kitchen. Abbie is right behind him.

“You should rest,” his mother protests.

“We need to get acclimated,” he argues. “So, we're not going to toddle off to bed right after dinner.”

“Yes,” Abbie agrees. “Besides, I brought Christmas gifts for you and Mr. Crane.”

Mrs. Crane turns and looks at her. “Oh, now, you didn't need to do that,” she says.

“I know. I wanted to,” Abbie answers, smiling. “I didn't want to arrive empty-handed.”

They finish cleaning up dinner, and head to the sitting room. Ichabod runs up to his room to retrieve the gifts Abbie has brought.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Crane says, accepting her package. It's a medium-small flat box.

“You're welcome,” Abbie answers. “And, thank you again for the gift card. It was very nice of you to think of me.”

Mr. and Mrs. Crane sent a Christmas card two weeks prior with gift cards inside for Ichabod and Abbie.

“Our pleasure, Abbie,” Mr. Crane replies. “Thank you,” he adds, receiving his present.

“Open them. Please,” Abbie prompts, sitting beside Ichabod on the couch.

“You first, Phillipa,” Mr. Crane defers to his wife.

She quickly unwraps her gift and opens the box. “Oh, it's lovely. And, it's pink! Did Ichabod tell you?”

Abbie smiles, watching as Mrs. Crane wraps the scarf around her neck. “He did. He told me you liked my gray scarf, so I wanted to get you one. I asked him your favorite color, and thankfully, they had one in pink.”

“It's so soft,” she says, rubbing it between her fingers. “Feel,” she offers it to her husband.

He dutifully feels the scarf. “Mmm,” he nods.

“Humph,” Mrs. Crane snorts. “Grumpy Trousers,” she says, but she is trying not to smile.

Her husband winks at her, then turns his attention to his gift. He squeezes it experimentally, a sly look on his face.

“He knows it's a movie,” Abbie whispers to Ichabod, frowning.

“Yes, but he doesn't know which one,” he answers. “I did suggest you place it inside another box.”

“Space was an issue,” Abbie replies.

“Ah, how marvelous! I don't have this one yet,” Mr. Crane declares, showing his Blu-Ray disc of _Skyfall_ to his wife.

“Very nice,” she nods, still wearing her scarf. “Ichabod, I thought you were asking because you were looking for a birthday gift idea,” she adds.

“I never specified _why_ I was asking,” Ichabod replies. “I had to text Mum to find out if he had that one,” he explains to Abbie.

“Thank you very much for the movie, Abbie,” Mr. Crane says, peeling the plastic from the box.

“Yes, thank you, Abbie,” Mrs. Crane echoes. She stands and crosses to Abbie, hugging her.

“You're welcome. Happy Christmas,” she says.

“Sounds strange with an American accent,” Mr. Crane says, chuckling. He's right behind his wife, waiting to hug Abbie as well.

“Thought I'd try it out,” Abbie answers, laughing with him. “Felt strange to say.” She wobbles slightly, and Ichabod reaches up to steady her.

“All right, Love?” he asks, concerned. He guides her back down to her seat.

“I probably walked too much today,” she admits.

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

“Yes, can I get you some ice, or a heating pad, or...?” Mrs. Crane offers.

Abbie smiles. _That's where he gets it._ “No, thank you,” she politely declines. “I took my medication just before dinner,” she says. “Ichabod, what are you... oh.” He's lifted her legs and is in the process of turning her sideways on the couch, draping them across his lap. “Thank you.”

“They're supposed to be elevated, I seem to recall,” he comments.

“Abbie, Ichabod only told us you were injured in the line of duty,” Mr. Crane says. “Will you tell us more about it? Only if it won't trouble you to do so, of course,” he clarifies.

“Of course,” Abbie answers, and begins the story.

 

xXx

 

“Well, I think you've completely enchanted my father,” Crane says later, up in his room. They are changing for bed.

“Don't worry, _Noodle_ ,” Abbie reassures him, lifting up on tiptoe to kiss him. “If he asks me to run away with him, I'll tell him ‘No’.”

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her before she can escape. “He's not impulsive like that,” he says, touching the tip of his nose to hers. “Mum, on the other hand...”

“I won't run away with her either,” she says, laughing.

“Good to know,” he replies, kissing her lips. He groans softly and deepens the kiss, reaching down and lifting her up.

Her legs instinctively wrap around his waist, her fingers pulling his ponytail free. Her tongue spars with his for a bit, and when she feels the wall against her back and his lips on her neck, she returns to her senses.

“Ichabod, wait...”

“Hmm?” he asks, lips still busy at her collarbone.

“Ichabod,” she repeats, tugging his hair.

He lifts his head.

“We... we shouldn't. I mean, your parents are—”

“Abbie,” he softly interrupts her, “do you remember exactly _where_ my parents' bedroom is?”

She doesn't need to replay the entire tour to find her answer. “Downstairs,” she says.

“On the opposite side of the house,” he adds, his lips and tongue on her pulse point. “Could not be farther away and still be in the same building.”

“Oh,” she replies. “Is that why you chose this room?” she asks, her voice breathy as he continues lavishing wet kisses on her neck.

“They moved downstairs after Dad retired,” he absently says. He lifts his head. “I do not wish to talk about my parents right now,” he says.

“Me neither,” she agrees, closing her lips over his.


	11. Chapter 11

The next two days pass pleasantly enough. Crane takes Abbie to as many of the “must-see” places as he can, given the time of year, as well as some of his favorite but lesser-known spots. Mrs. Crane gets her shopping afternoon with Abbie while Ichabod and his father stay home and, together, spend their version of quality time: sitting and reading in the same room.

Abbie hasn't been doing an excessive amount of walking – Crane has made certain of that – but by New Year’s Eve her knee is still sore, so they decide to spend the morning at home. If Abbie feels up for it, they may venture out in the afternoon.

“Mr. Crane, may I ask a question?” Abbie asks, once again sitting with her legs in Ichabod's lap on the couch.

“Of course, dear, ask me anything you like,” Mr. Crane answers, setting his newspaper aside.

“Was there a reason you chose to retire early? I mean, you can't be over 60 years old, and Ichabod says you've been retired for two years now. I am simply curious if there was a reason,” she says.

Mr. Crane smiles. “Yes. There was a reason. You may recall I mentioned having borderline high blood pressure.” Abbie nods, the light dawning. “Well, it wasn't always borderline. It only lowered enough to become so after I retired,” he explains.

“And, the cholesterol was elevated by stress as well,” Mrs. Crane adds, joining them. She is carrying a tray with four teacups. “That one is yours, dear,” she indicates the one nearest Abbie. “Extra sweet.”

“Thank you,” Abbie says, taking the cup.

Ichabod reaches for the one that was beside it, his eyebrows raised in a question. His mother nods and he takes his cup.

“Thank you, Darling,” Mr. Crane says. “And, she is correct. My work was affecting my health, and since I was fortunate enough to have the means to retire at 54 years old, I did.”

“I didn't realize publishing was such a high-stress job,” Abbie comments.

“Well, it's not police work, but it has its share of trials,” Mr. Crane replies, smiling at the young woman.

“Bert took on more than he should have,” Mrs. Crane explains. “He...”  
Ichabod's mobile phone rings. When he looks at it, his eyes widen significantly. He glances at Abbie, then swipes across the screen to answer. “Hello?” Abbie moves her legs from his lap to allow him to stand, and he walks into the kitchen. “No, it is not a problem at all. Happy New Year to you as well...”

Abbie and Mr. and Mrs. Crane stare at each other for a moment, not sure how to proceed.

Eventually, Mrs. Crane clears her throat and continues. “Um, yes. Bert did not always delegate responsibility the way he _should_ have done,” she says. “He did too much.”

“I understand that,” Abbie says, nodding. “Best way to make sure something is done correctly is to do it yourself, right?”

“Thank you,” Mr. Crane says with a nod. “See, Abbie understands.”

“Oh, I'm not saying it's right; I'm simply saying I understand the mindset. Sheriff Corbin was like that. So is my sister,” Abbie clarifies.

“Not you?” Mr. Crane asks, raising his eyebrow.

 _Aha, I knew they had the same forehead._ “I try not to be,” Abbie admits, smiling.

Ichabod appears in the doorway, and three faces turn expectantly towards him. “Dr. Hayward offered me the position,” he quietly says. His mother jumps to her feet and hugs him, overjoyed. His father stands and shakes his hand, clasping it between both of his. “Thank you,” Crane says, his voice still quiet. “I have yet to give him my answer.”

“Oh,” his mother softly exclaims, obviously having expected her son to immediately accept.

Crane looks at Abbie, sitting on the edge of a couch cushion, her posture stiff and her hands tightly clasped together on her knees. “Abbie, may I have a word?” he asks, stepping over to her, his hand extended. She takes his hand and he leads her to the sunroom at the back of the house.

The sun has come out, making the room comfortably warm despite the abundance of windows. Abbie sits on the chaise lounge. “When do you need to give them your answer?” she asks.

“I told him I would let him know before we leave on the second,” he answers, sitting beside her, taking her hands in his.

“That long?” she asks, puzzled. “Ichabod, this is everything you want, why do you need time to think?”

He shyly smiles at her. “Don't you see, Love? It isn't _everything_ I want.” He lifts her hands and kisses them. “I had... intended to do this later. Tonight, as we rung in the New Year. But... I think I'd like to do it now...” he says, stumbling over his words a bit. “Abbie,” he starts again, sliding off the chaise to kneel in front of her, “I cannot take the position here if _you_ are in Sleepy Hollow.” He kisses her hands again as she watches him with wide eyes. “And, as much as I want this post, there is something I want even more.” She gasps, and bites her lip, anticipating his next words. “Abigail, my love... will you marry me? Will you marry me and do me the great honor of being my wife?”

“Yes,” she breathes, a tear escaping from the corner of her eye. “Yes, I will, Ichabod,” she says leaning forward to meet him as he reaches up for her, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug. “I have no idea what I'll do here, but yes!” she whispers, laughing.

“Treasure, you can do whatever you wish,” he says, leaning back to smile at her. It's a stupid, lopsided, lovesick grin, and she laughs more. He catches her laughing lips with a kiss, his knees growing sore, but he doesn’t care because she is in his arms and she said “Yes”. “Oh,” he pulls away, remembering. “Wait here.” He pecks her lips, unfolds himself from the floor, and jogs from the room.

Abbie waits, mind reeling and face smiling. She faintly hears Mrs. Crane's confused inquiries as she sees her son tearing through the house. A minute later, Crane returns to the sunroom, only slightly out of breath. “I did say this house was much too large,” he comments, returning to Abbie's side, sitting beside her. He lifts a small black box hidden in his hand and opens it, revealing a beautiful diamond ring.

“You came packing?” Abbie blurts. She claps her hands over her mouth as Crane laughs. “Sorry! I know that wasn't the right reaction!” she says, laughing. “It's beautiful, Ichabod,” she says as he lifts her left hand and places it on her finger. “And, it fits!” She hugs him tightly, tucking her head against his chest.

“Yes, I 'came packing', as you said,” he says, kissing her hair. She lifts her head to look at him. “While you were out bargain hunting with Jenny on the day after Christmas, I _also_ went shopping,” he explains. “I have been thinking about this for several weeks, to be honest. By Christmas, I knew no matter what the outcome of this trip, I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. It doesn't matter where. My home is where you are.” He thumbs away a tear that has slipped from her eye, then kisses her forehead.

“I feel the same way,” she whispers, overwhelmed by his admission and her feelings. She reaches up and cups his cheek, her fingers stroking his beard. “As long as I'm with you, I'm... I'm happy. Happier than I've ever been.”

Crane exuberantly kisses her, at a rare loss for words. She makes a small squeak as he leans her back against the raised end of the chaise, deepening the kiss. She sighs and threads her fingers into his hair, meeting his questing tongue with her own.

“Oh! I... oh, dear...” Mrs. Crane exclaims, standing awkwardly in the doorway, her face scarlet. Crane and Abbie quickly separate. Abbie is giggling; Crane’s ponytail is askew. “I’m sorry... I was just making sure everything was all right... you were tearing through the house... apparently, everything _is_ all right, so...” she stammers, backing away from the door.

“Mum,” Crane says, standing, “it’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything is fantastic, in fact.” Mrs. Crane steps forward again, curious. “Abbie has just consented to be my wife,” he explains, lifting Abbie’s left hand and showing his mother.

The older woman’s face lights up, she yells, “Bert!” and hurries into the room. Instead of hugging her son, she hugs Abbie, then looks at the ring. “Oh, Ichabod, it’s lovely,” she says. Then, she hugs a laughing Ichabod.

Mr. Crane enters the room, asking, “What are you shouting about, Phillipa? I was— oh,” he pulls up short when his wife shows him Abbie’s hand. “Well, then. That _is_ worth shouting about,” he says, smiling and nodding his approval. “So, does this mean you’re taking the job?”

Ichabod looks at Abbie, then back to his father. “Will you give us a moment?”

Mr. Crane’s eyebrow’s lift in surprise. “Honestly? You still haven’t—” he starts. Mrs. Crane quietly shushes her husband and gently pushes him from the room. “But, I thought since Abbie said…” His voice fades as they retreat.

Ichabod takes her hands and guides her back down onto the chaise, waiting for her approval. She gazes up at him and bites her lower lip. “You don’t have to answer right now, Love,” he says.

“It’s not my decision alone, Ichabod,” she says. “This is _your_ job. You shouldn’t accept it based solely on what I want,” she answers.

He caresses her cheek with his hand. “You know what _I_ want, Abbie. Whether it be here or there...” he trails off, shrugging one shoulder as though they were not pondering a life-altering decision.

“You would give up your dream job for me?” Abbie quietly asks, almost afraid to pose the question. He nods. She looks down at her feet, glances at the ring on her hand, the tangible representation of their love. _I would never ask him to refuse this offer. But, knowing he_ would _if I did…_ She looks up at him. “I would like... to return here next fall with you, Ichabod,” she says.

He exhales heavily and hugs her tightly, pulling her onto his lap. “Thank you,” he whispers, tucking his face into her neck. “Thank you so much. You’ve made me the happiest man on the planet,” he says, still smiling. _I think I will be forever smiling._ “And, we probably should move back here next summer.”

Abbie laughs. “Of course, right,” she says. “Oh, man... so much to do...”

Crane softly kisses her. “We have time, Love,” he reassures. “And, now is not the time for fretting over those details. Now is the time for celebrating.”

Her eyes widen. “I have to call Jenny! What time is it?”

“It is 10:44,” he answers. “Which means it is 4:44 a.m. in Sleepy Hollow.”

She hesitates for a moment, biting her lip. He wordlessly hands her his phone, knowing she's going to call her sister despite the time.

“Thank you,” she says, bringing up her sister’s contact information.

 

xXx

 

Mr. Crane had already made dinner reservations for the four of them, and the evening became even more of a celebration with the addition of Abbie and Ichabod's engagement.

“We should order champagne,” Mr. Crane suggests, looking over the wine list.

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely,” Mrs. Crane agrees.

Abbie glances at Ichabod, and he clears his throat. “Dad, Abbie is taking antibiotic medication for the infection in her knee,” he informs.

Mr. Crane looks up. “Oh, yes, that's right.” He puts the wine list down on the table. “Plan B then.”

“If you all would like champagne, that's completely fine,” Abbie speaks up. “Honest. I just won't be able to have any.”

Mrs. Crane looks at Ichabod, then back at Abbie. “I know my son. If you don't have any, he won't, either. That would leave Bert and me to drink an entire bottle of champagne, and trust me, dear, no one wants that,” she says, laughing.

Abbie smiles, wondering if she will one day hear stories about the youthful revelry of Cuthbert and Phillipa Crane. “What is Plan B?” she asks.

“Well, if we're not having champagne, we'll have to make certain to save room for dessert,” he simply says.

“Oh, I am _definitely_ down for dessert,” Abbie replies, smiling.

They all thoroughly enjoy themselves at dinner. The trip has been good thus far, but now that the matter of Ichabod's job has been settled, everyone feels as though a weight has been lifted from his or her shoulders. The conversation eventually turns to Ichabod and Abbie's move the following summer, and when Mr. Crane inquires about an approximate date, Mrs. Crane interrupts.

“Well, I think we have a more important detail to nail down first,” she says.

“What's that?” her husband asks.

“The wedding date,” Ichabod supplies, guessing his mother's thought.

“Specifically, will you be marrying in the US or here?” she clarifies.

“Oh, that's a good question,” Abbie says. “There may be laws we have to consider for citizenship...”

“I believe there is a special visa for which you can apply. It may even be called a 'Marriage Visa'. That is, if you plan to get married here,” Mr. Crane says.

“It is traditional to have the wedding in the bride's hometown,” Mrs. Crane says.

“Abbie, what do you think?” Ichabod says, reaching over for her hand.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, it doesn't matter that much _where_ we get married,” she answers. “I mean, as long as it happens, whether in Sleepy Hollow or London...” she trails off, lifting her free hand palm up.

“From a practical standpoint, it might be easier for you to gain citizenship, if you wish to do so, if you marry here,” Mr. Crane recommends.

“Jenny already said she would come visit me,” Abbie says, the prospect of a wedding in England becoming more and more attractive.

“Oh, dear...” Mrs. Crane suddenly says.

“Mum, what on earth are you—”

“Mary Wells,” she interrupts. “Do not look, Ichabod. She's over there,” she points with her eyes, not turning her head, “with a man. I just saw her look directly at you.”

“The gold-digging ex?” Abbie asks. “Ooo, I want to look _so_ badly,” she adds, grinning.

Mr. Crane clears his throat. “Pay her no mind, for goodness' sake,” he says, his expression tight. “If you like, I can investigate what paperwork needs to be done,” he continues, attempting to steer the conversation back. Ichabod had told Abbie that his father was almost angrier than he was when the truth came out about Mary.

“Look now, Abbie. Quickly!” Mrs. Crane whispers, patting Abbie's hand. Abbie and Ichabod both look.

Abbie sees a woman about her age. Dark hair, pale skin. Pretty, but not gorgeous, from what she can see. Mary laughs, and her high-pitched titter reaches Abbie's ears. Then, Mary turns to look towards their table again, and Abbie, not wishing to be caught staring, begins looking around, her eyes searching the restaurant, as though she is trying to locate their waiter. She furrows her brows, shrugs, then turns her attention back to her own table.

“I never liked her laugh,” Ichabod says. “Very smooth, Abbie,” he adds, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“I think she saw that,” Mrs. Crane comments.

The waiter appears, and they order their desserts.

“Oh! Sorry. Yes, Dad, it would be most helpful if you could look into that information for us,” Ichabod says, remembering his father's earlier attempt.

Mr. Crane nods. “Consider it done. Abbie, is there anyone else who might be able to make the trip over?”

“Frank Irving and his family would probably like to be here,” Abbie says. “He's the head of the Criminal Science Department, and a dear friend. _Maybe_ Captain Reyes. She's another colleague. I honestly don't have a lot of people.”

“Abraham may wish to make the trip over,” Ichabod says. “Difficult to tell with him though.”

Their desserts arrive, and the conversation steers back towards the wedding and relocating. Just as they are discussing why it wouldn't be very practical for Abbie and Ichabod to live with his parents until they find a place of their own in Oxford, Mary walks past, headed to the restroom. She quickly goes by, but makes sure to get a good look at Abbie.

“It would be an hour's commute for me, Mum, that's all,” Ichabod says, studiously ignoring Mary yet keeping track of her, remembering her jealousy and possessiveness.

“I know, Darling,” Mrs. Crane admits. “It was merely a hopeful thought, that's all.”

He smiles at his mother. “We'll probably just find a flat in Oxford,” he replies.

“For a while,” Abbie amends, smiling.

“Yes, of course,” Ichabod agrees. “Good thing I never did find a house to purchase in Sleepy Hollow. I had been looking,” he adds.

“Fortunate, indeed,” Mr. Crane agrees.

“Or, perhaps you weren't meant to buy a house there,” Mrs. Crane points out.

“Good fortune or divine intervention, either way, I'll take it,” Ichabod says, smiling over at Abbie. His eyes drop to her plate. “May I try a bite of your cheesecake?”

“Mmm, yes, of course,” she says. Instead of pushing the plate towards him, she takes a forkful and offers it to him. He smiles at her as he takes the bite.

“Remember the first time you did that?” he asks after he swallows.

Abbie nods. “Our second date,” she immediately answers.

“Oh, how sweet,” Mrs. Crane says.

“It was a brownie with peanut butter,” Ichabod explains.

“I never understood the American obsession with peanut butter,” Mr. Crane comments, a wry smile on his face.

“Clearly, you haven't had one of these brownies,” Abbie replies.

They finish their desserts, Abbie and Ichabod telling his parents about their first two dates (Mr. Crane was _very_ intrigued by the Monte Cristo sandwich). Mr. Crane pays the bill and as they stand to leave, Abbie accidentally bumps her cane from its resting place, and it clatters noisily to the floor. Several heads turn, most almost immediately turning back to their own tables.

Mary Wells watches with wide-eyed interest as Ichabod bends and retrieves Abbie's cane for her. She smiles up at him, saying “Thank you” as she grasps it with her left hand. Mary sees the sparkle of the sizable diamond on Abbie's small hand and her mouth involuntarily opens in a soft gasp.

Abbie doesn't hear the gasp, but her eyes land on Mary nevertheless. She takes no joy in seeing the stricken look on the other woman's face. She feels pity for her, in fact, and offers her a quick, small smile before looping her right hand into Ichabod's elbow.

“Abbie, dear, I should mention I have a good friend who is one of the top orthopedic surgeons in London. Please remind me to give you one or two of Arthur's cards so you may have your physician contact him,” Mr. Crane says as they walk out.

“Thank you, Mr. Crane, that's very thoughtful of you,” Abbie says. “Honestly, it was a concern of mine.”

“Dr. Bradley is quite good, Abbie,” Mrs. Crane adds once they are in the car. “He did my older sister's hip replacement four years ago and she hasn't had a lick of trouble with it since.”

“That's reassuring to hear, thank you, Mrs. Crane,” Abbie says.

“Please, dear, call me 'Phillipa',” the older woman replies.

“Yes, and do call me 'Bert',” Mr. Crane agrees. “Or, if you are so inclined, 'Dad' would also be acceptable.” He smiles at her in the rear view mirror.

Abbie glances over and sees Mrs. Crane nodding her agreement as well.

“It's been... good Lord, 25 years since I called anyone 'Dad' or 'Mom',” Abbie says, smiling. “Or, I guess it would be 'Mum', wouldn't it?”

“Whatever you like, Abbie,” Mrs. Crane answers, chuckling fondly at her future daughter-in-law.

 

xXx

 

“Abbie,” Crane whispers, gently nudging his sleeping fiancée. “Love.”

Abbie incoherently grumbles, turning her face into his chest.

“It's 11:50, Treasure. Would you like to wake up and ring in the New Year with me?” he softly asks, stroking her cheek.

She groans. “Why did you let me fall asleep?” she asks, blinking her eyes open.

“I did not 'let' you do anything,” he counters. “You simply did.”

“You wore me out,” she says, pulling on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms with the t-shirt of Crane's she hastily had yanked on for warmth before snuggling into his chest. She was asleep moments later.

“I seem to recall you were quite a willing participant, even taking charge at one point,” he says. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with his thick, plush bathrobe on and Abbie's (which Mrs. Crane insisted on purchasing for Abbie on their shopping trip) in his hand.

“Well, whatever the case, I must have been pretty exhausted. Why the robe?” she asks, slipping her arms into it as he holds it out for her.

“We're going outside,” he says. “Put on those fuzzy boots of yours.” He opens a chest at the end of his bed and withdraws a large quilt.

“Outside?” She eyes the blanket suspiciously. “Are we having a picnic?” She reaches up to unwind the scarf from around her head, but he stops her.

“You don't need to undo your scarf; we're only going across the hall. There's a balcony off that bedroom. The blanket is just for warmth.”

She drops her hands. “Oh,” she says, taking his hand and following him out of his room and into the guest room.

“Mum was always afraid I would use this balcony to sneak out when I was younger. That's why I was allowed to have the room with the en suite,” he explains.

“Right, because it wouldn't occur to you to just, oh, go across the hall. 'Oh, no, I can't sneak out because the balcony isn't in my room!'” she laughs.

“Spoken like a woman who knows a thing or two about sneaking out of houses,” he replies, raising an eyebrow at her as he opens the door to the balcony.

“I did tell you about my misspent youth,” she reminds him.

“Yes, Love, I do recall,” he says, nodding. “Here.” He pulls her closer to him and wraps the quilt around both of them. “Look,” he instructs.

“Oh, it's an amazing view,” Abbie breathes, looking out over the back garden. She can see the entire neighborhood, cast in a silvery glow from the moon high overhead. She looks up and sees bright stars, clear and twinkling in the black sky.

“This was one of my hiding places,” Crane explains. “When I was a boy. I liked to come out here and sit and just... watch things. Birds. The neighbors, if it was daytime. Mrs. Johnson,” he points one house over and up, “used to sunbathe in a bikini.” She laughs and he grins at her.

“Sounds like she was a _young_ Mrs. Johnson,” she says.

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely a trophy wife. Mr. Johnson was a doddering old fool with more money than sense,” he agrees. He tucks the blanket more securely around them and continues. “I fell asleep out here once. Mum was about ready to ring the police when Dad found me.” He chuckles. “At the time, I think I would have preferred the police.”

Abbie laughs more at this.

“I love the sound of your laugh,” he says, gazing down into her large, brown eyes. He kisses her once, softly and briefly, gathering her closer, making sure she is fully ensconced in the blanket. “I would—”

The sounds of revelry around the quiet neighborhood interrupt him. They aren't terribly loud or raucous, but just enough so that Crane and Abbie know it is time. “Ah. It must be midnight,” he says, lifting his head. “Happy New Year, my love.”

“Happy New Year, Ichabod. I love you so much. Thank you for bringing me here with you,” she answers, leaning up to kiss him.

They kiss for a time, no longer noticing the cold winter air around them, warm and secure in their little cocoon on the balcony.

“Thank you for _coming_ with me,” Crane says, dropping his forehead to rest against hers. “Thank you for everything, Abbie.”

Abbie smiles and tilts her chin up to peck his lips. “You're welcome. I really do like it here.”

“I'm so glad to hear you say that,” he says. She feels his hands move, and he brings one up to her face, caressing her cheek then tucking an escaped tendril of hair back inside the scarf. He smiles down at her, his expression somewhat strange.

“What's that smile?” she asks, curious.

“Just a memory,” he says, kissing her forehead. “I suddenly remembered something I hadn't thought of in years.”

“What?” she asks.

“It's silly.”

“Now, I definitely need to know,” she says, resting her chin on his chest.

“I used to have dreams when I was younger,” he says. “Dreams involving who I always assumed to be the woman I would one day marry.”

Her eyes widen. “I'm not sure I want to know any more.”

He laughs. “No, it's nothing like that! The only thing I remember is she had dark hair and large, dark eyes,” he says. He leans down again and kisses her eyelids. “I don't know if the dreams were telling me something or I simply _wanted_ it to be the case, but since then, I always had a feeling that the woman with whom I would fall in love and marry would have those two qualities.”

She smiles. “That's not silly at all. It's very sweet, in fact.” She huddles closer. “Can we go inside?”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” he answers, taking one second more to look at the vast starry sky overhead. Then, he drops the blanket, pushes the door open, and allows Abbie to scuttle through, back into the warm house. “It's really amazing,” he absently comments, returning to his room.

“What is?”

“Looking up at the stars outside, it hit me how immense this world is and how you and I have come from such different backgrounds and places, yet we still managed to find one another,” Crane says, taking off his slippers and robe.

“Thanks to some idiot undergrad plowing me down,” Abbie replies, chuckling. She slides into bed, sitting up and waiting for him to join her.

He takes their robes into the bathroom to hang up, then returns. “We should find said 'idiot undergrad' and invite him to the wedding,” he jokes, climbing into bed beside her. “Honestly, while I am unhappy you were injured, I am so grateful for that incident.”

“Me, too,” she admits. “I wonder how long we would have kept orbiting one another had he not knocked me over.”

He smiles. “That's a good word for what we had been doing. I think I would have found a way to make our paths cross,” he says, remembering his conversation with Bram and Mrs. Gardener during the football game which now feels like it was 100 years ago.

They snuggle down into bed, and Crane pulls Abbie close, facing him, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

“I was about ready to make that happen, too,” she admits. She leans up and kisses him. She smiles at him, lightly petting his beard, but there is a very slight sadness in her smile.

“Something is troubling you, Love,” he says.

She sighs lightly. “I don't know if 'troubling' is the right word, but...”

“Please tell me,” he urges after she hesitates.

“It's... well, you sound like a man who has finally realized all of the dreams of his younger days,” she starts. She pauses, and he waits patiently for her to continue. “Which is a _good_ thing,” she clarifies. “Everyone should be so lucky.” She stops again, kisses him, and says, “My next words aren't going to sound the way I mean them, but... this isn't exactly how I pictured my life turning out.”

“I understand,” he nods. He knows she isn't expressing disappointment with her life, she is simply stating it's different than what she expected.

Abbie tucks her head under Crane's chin. “When I was younger, I had no interest in being a police officer, or anything like that. I never thought about boys until I was a teen, being shuttled from foster home to foster home, and... and at that time they were simply a diversion.” She stops again and looks up at him. “I certainly never imagined I'd be engaged to a skinny, British, white History professor,” she adds, smiling. She kisses his smiling cheek and drops her head back down. “I honestly never thought I would get married.” She sighs. “I see you fulfilling your dreams: a post at Oxford after spending three years experiencing life in the U.S. Engaged to your dark-haired, dark-eyed _literal_ dream girl,” she pauses a second, then adds, “and, as a bonus, you get dark-skinned as well.” He chuckles and she smiles against his chest, then kisses it. He gives her an affectionate squeeze in return. “My dreams were meager, but... they've gone unrealized. Don't misunderstand, I'm happy. _Very_ happy,” she explains, lifting her head again, this time propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him. “I'm only saying seeing you realize yours makes me realize – and remember – mine. I mean, yeah, running away with Michael Jackson or becoming a Fly Girl aren't viable options anymore, but...” she trails off again.

“Abbie,” Crane quietly interjects, “you keep dancing around what your dreams actually were. What did you want to do? To be?”

She looks down at her left hand, idly picking at his shirt. “I wanted to be an artist,” she says. “It was the only thing I was any good at that I also enjoyed.”

“Really?” he asks, intrigued. “How is it you never told me this?”

She shrugs. “I was told that academics were more important. That I wouldn't be able to make a living doing art. I was discouraged from pursuing it, and by the time Corbin, um, rescued Jenny and me, my dream was basically forgotten. He may have been the one person who would have encouraged it, but he never knew.”

“Abbie,” he says, furrowing his brows, “I've gotten everything I wanted. Why can't you have the same?”

“What do you mean? Take up art again?”

“That's exactly what I mean,” he says, growing excited at the thought. “Remember, you won't really _need_ to work once we move back here, so... why not? I know you would go crazy with boredom doing nothing, so if you're going to do something...”

Abbie's small smile broadens significantly as he speaks, the idea creeping into her brain and spreading its branches, taking root. “Why not do something I like?” she finishes. Crane nods enthusiastically and she narrows her eyes at him. “You don't even know if I have any talent. I could be a complete hack.”

“I doubt it,” he says. “You could draw something for me if it would make you feel better,” he offers.

“What, now?”

“No, not now,” he chuckles. “Tomorrow. Er, later today.”

“I'll think about it,” she says.

“Come here,” he softly beckons her back down to his shoulder. “All I want is for you to be happy, my love.”

“I am happy, Ichabod. _You_ make me happy,” she answers, turning her face to kiss his neck.

He lifts her face to his and kisses her. “My purpose in life,” he replies, kissing her again. “For, if you are happy, I am happy,” he adds, his lips a hair's breadth from hers, brushing against them as he speaks. He captures her lips with his again, ardently kissing her, his tongue hungrily seeking hers out. “I love you so much, Abigail,” he whispers, moving over her.

His lips move to her neck and she angles her head into the pillow to allow him more access. The movement partially dislodges her head scarf, and she absently pulls it off and sets it aside. _I'll re-do it later._

Abbie's fingers move into Crane's hair as his hands begin shoving at her t-shirt. She yanks it off and tosses it aside, and he does the same with his. His lips return to her neck, his hand on her breast.

“I have one question,” he breathlessly asks, lifting his head.

“Hmm?” she replies, slightly dazed and wondering what he could possibly be thinking.

“What is a 'Fly Girl'?”

She laughs, throwing her head back. Then, she cups his face with her hands and gently pulls him to her for a kiss. “I'll tell you later,” she answers, her hand slipping into the back of his shorts.

He groans into her mouth, she answers with a soft whimper, and they become lost in each other.

Later, as they drift off to sleep again, Ichabod and Abbie know they will no longer orbit one another: separate, never touching. Instead, they are joined, forever and irrevocably connected, by their hearts.


End file.
